


Peccatoribus

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would not take much to give her an easy life here in the countryside, to keep her away from court, and he knew that there were more men than Henry would suspect or the Boleyns might like who would be willing to marry her, in time, bastard or not - beautiful girls with wealthy fathers never had much trouble in finding husbands, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/gifts), [Manawydan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manawydan/gifts), [theMightyPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/gifts).



> Many thanks to my long suffering beta readers, to whom I dedicate this little adventure ;)

The Princess Mary comported herself with all dignity and composure when she arrived at his home.

She was dressed in dark velvets, unseasonably warm considering it was not yet even October, but Charles supposed that that was only to be expected from a daughter of Henry's - he dressed too warmly in all but the finest of weather, just as the Lady was despite it being a bright day, and not as cool as it might have been for late September. No doubt she was as terrified of catching cold as her father, as paranoid of illness as ever he had been, which was a vice more permissible in a young woman than any other she might have inherited from Henry.

She seemed pale, all the same, and tired, but Charles supposed that that was only to be expected - her whole world had been turned on its head, after all, and she was not the most robust of young women. She never had been, even with the obsessive precautions Henry and Queen Katherine had taken with regards her health when she was a child, their only living child, and therefore the most valuable little girl in England. He would speak with the housekeeper and the cook, ask them to provide her with warm, bright chambers and a stout, healthy diet, and perhaps a physician could be found who might give her a tonic of the sort her father was so fond, to boost her health and put some colour in her cheeks.

It would not do for her to die in his care, when her father had trusted him above all others to mind his daughter. As well, both she and her mother had suffered enough hurts in recent years, and if one of them died, he thought the other would soon follow her into the grave. Henry would likely blame Charles if anything befell Mary, even if she caught the plague, so he thought it best to ensure she had the utmost care.

If nothing else, Margaret had always loved her niece, and to care for her might be a means of atoning for what hurts he had caused her.

"My lord Suffolk," she greeted him, one hand held out to him, and he wondered if she even realised how she trembled. She had never shown a moment's fear in all the time since Henry began proceedings against her mother and herself, not that Charles had ever seen. It was a talent she had inherited from her mother, one that he felt the new Queen might do well to cultivate - often, it seemed to Charles, Queen Anne was too open, risking not only people's opinions of herself but also of Henry. A Queen reflected on her King, after all, and Queen Katherine had never reflected anything but well on Henry. Anne was less mature than Katherine had been upon coming to the throne in years alone, but even without that, there was a lack of dignity in Henry's new wife that even her striking looks could not balance. "You have my great thanks for accepting me into your home."

"It is my honour to be your host, Your Highness," he assured her, kissing her hand before rising from his bow. She had taken badly to being named a bastard, and treated cruelly for being so stubborn about something that was understandably difficult for her - a girl who had been given Ludlow Castle as her own, a girl who had been beloved of her father until a woman who should have been nothing more than his mistress tore her life apart, expected to calmly accept that her adored father saw her as a bastard? Not bloody likely. It would not cost him much to ease her into answering to _Lady Mary_ , rather than force it one her all at once as Boleyn or Norfolk might have. "Please, allow me to present my son, Edward - your cousin, my lady."

She smiled as she moved to greet Edward, and it transformed her whole face - he saw Margaret there, and Henry on a good day, and some of Queen Katherine, too - to the point where she seemed once more the beautiful girl who had been the pearl of her father’s world. It would not take much to give her an easy life here in the countryside, to keep her away from court, and he knew that there were more men than Henry would suspect or the Boleyns might like who would be willing to marry her, in time, bastard or not - beautiful girls with wealthy fathers never had much trouble in finding husbands, after all.

Charles could not understand Henry, in this - getting rid of Katherine was one thing, and Charles would not in any way deny that Henry was right that it was best for the realm that he had a male heir to inherit his throne, but the cruelties he had planned for the Lady Mary seemed excessive. True, she could not remain as the Princess of Wales if the King wished to truly claim his marriage to Katherine was invalid, but that did not mean that she had to be so rudely treated - a duchy was something easily given, as Charles himself stood proof, and the Lady surely qualified as worthy by dint of her blood alone, legitimate or not.

By that token, it seemed absurd to Charles that Katherine would not bend her pride for Mary's sake. He would admit that he had not been a particularly good husband to Margaret, and he had been a largely absent father to Edward, it was true, but had Edward been in danger as Mary was because of Charles' own pigheadedness, he would have given in. He understood Katherine's pride, her reluctance to give up her station, but she claimed to love her daughter before all things - surely she would care to see Mary well cared for, and recognised as the King's daughter?

Better for Mary that she take the Oath when the time came, and that she recognised that she was never going to take the throne - Henry would never allow it, not after going to such lengths to remove her from the succession, not after breaking from the _Church_.  

He watched her greet Edward, and hoped that Henry would be more inclined to treat the Lady more kindly if the Queen succeeded in giving him the son he craved regardless of how her mother behaved. One could only hope.

 

* * *

 

The harlot had given birth to a girl, Mary knew, and she was both relieved - surely this was a sign from God that her father had been wrong to attempt to set her and her mother aside! - and afraid. A princess had greater need of ladies-in-waiting than a prince, and since Mary's father was trying to convince everyone that his newest bastard was a princess, doubtless she would have an excessive entourage wherever her household was set up, be it at Whitehall or in one of the crown's manors or castles outside of London.

The Duke of Suffolk had a great number of gossipy maids, and Mary had overheard them whispering that there was talk that she was to be sent to wait on the new baby princess. Mary was certain that her father would never force such an indignity on her, even under the harlot's influence as he currently was, but she feared that the harlot, working behind his back, might place her with her half-sister as a maid.

The Baroness Willoughby de Eresby, the Duke's other ward, who insisted that Mary call her Cathy, did not think that Mary needed to worry one way or the other. Cathy was only fourteen, though, and half in love with the Duke, who she considered to be the most valiant champion Mary could hope for, and she believed that Mary had no reason to fear being taken away and shamed so long as she remained a member of Lord Suffolk's household.

"I'll wager," Cathy said as they walked together in the gardens, "that His Grace has insisted that you remain here, as his ward, to be companion to Edward and I."

Cathy was betrothed to Mary's cousin Edward, who was only a boy of ten, which was part of why Mary found Cathy's fancy for the Duke unseemly. It was completely obscene, for one thing, considering it would only be a few years before Cathy and Edward married, and the Duke would be Cathy's father-in-law. For another, Mary knew well enough that the way Cathy's cheeks pinked whenever the Duke was about meant her thoughts were far from pure, and such things were sinful.

Mary did not deny that God had made the Duke well - he was a handsome man, of strong build and excellent health, and kept himself exceedingly fit. Neither that nor the heat Mary sometimes saw in his eyes when he looked at a pretty maid at mealtimes could excuse such lewd thoughts as Cathy entertained, though, and so Mary tried to encourage her companion into joining her in extra prayers every morning, as penance.

Mary did enjoy Cathy's company - Cathy's mother had been one of Mary's own mother's Spanish ladies, and Maria de Salinas raised Cathy with the same Spanish influence as the Queen had Mary. They enjoyed many of the same songs and dances, and had similar tastes in books and entertainments, even if Cathy's tastes were sometimes a little frivolous, in Mary's opinion.

Edward, too, was more entertaining company than Mary had expected - he was a bright, intelligent boy, especially for just ten years of age, with much of her aunt in him. Mary knew that her mother had often disapproved of Margaret's sometimes fiery temper, of her public excesses, but Mary always liked her aunt, and never doubted Margaret's regard for her, as she sometimes now doubted her father's. Edward had never, in the month or so Mary had resided at Westhorpe, shown that temper that his mother had shared with Mary's father, which could only be for the good, especially since Mary sometimes feared that she felt it rising in herself, whenever some of the maids were particularly careful to show deference to Edward or to Cathy over Mary herself.

Her cousin, though, was a good companion - Mary had never been able to spend as much time out of doors as she might have liked, when she was fully recognised as heir to the throne, and the new freedom to more or less chose her own diversions was terribly exciting. She took full advantage of it, riding out with cousin Edward and Cathy whenever they could persuade their tutors to release them, and even making a pet of one of the smaller, slower of Lord Suffolk's hunting dogs, simply because she _could_. Edward then announced that he and Cathy must also have hunting dogs, and that he would ask his father if he might send one to his sister, Frances, who was living in far-away Scotland with their aunt - also Mary's aunt - Lady Methvin, who had once been Margaret, Queen of Scots.

Mary did not wholly understand why Frances Brandon was in Scotland with their aunt, but she suspected it had been a plot of her father's, or possibly of Cardinal Wolsey's, in hopes that Lady Methvin would see fit to betroth Frances to her son, the Scottish King, and tie the Stewarts tighter to the Tudors. Mary did not think such a thing would happen - Frances was a girl of eight, and Mary knew from bitter experience that grown men, such as her cousin the Emperor, did not like to wait for girls to grow into women when there were women full-grown to be had. Cousin James was older than Mary, never mind than Frances, and betrothed to a Princess of France, or so Mary had heard.

No matter. Edward was a sweet boy, and from what Mary had seen, the Duke was an indulgent father, so doubtless it would be arranged that Frances Brandon, far away in Scotland, would receive a pet dog of her own.

 

* * *

 

Charles was at Whitehall while Mary befriended his son and his ward, kept up to date by helpful missives from Edward's tutor, who noted the Lady Mary to be _a quiet, polite girl, who spends a great deal of time in prayer and quiet reflection, but who smiles readily when in the company of Lord Edward or the Baroness Willoughby de Eresby._

That was good, at least - while he suspected Henry did not give a damn either way, he preferred to think that she was, if not happy, at least not _un_ happy under his care. He said something to that effect to Tony, who laughed as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"You've never liked disappointing a lady, have you, Charles?" he said, shaking his head and smiling. Tony was always smiling, or at least so it seemed to Charles. Had he not known Tony as well as he did, he might have thought the other man a fool, as he knew many of their fellow courtiers did, but he _did_ know Tony, and he knew that there was little enough that his smiling, sharp-eyed friend missed.

Which meant Tony knew that the Boleyn men were standing across the hall, watching Brandon as if he were a particular source of amusement to them. He supposed he was - he had offered to take in the King's currently hated bastard, after all, risking royal suspicion as few would dare, and was treating it as though Mary were any other ward. In truth, there was no other way to treat her, not without risking Henry's displeasure, or without drawing suspicion of conspiring on her behalf upon himself. He had to behave as though Mary Tudor were no more important or dangerous than Cathy Willoughby was, and in doing so, he would render her thus.

Or so he hoped. Who truly knew, at court?

"They say she's a good looking girl," Tony said, leaning against the pillar behind them and nodding when George Boleyn's staring became obvious. "The Lady, that is."

"She's my wife's niece," Charles said, knowing that by doing anything other than claiming Mary to be ugly, he was only confirming Tony's suspicions. "And my ward."

"If her last name were anything but Tudor, I can't see that that would make any difference to you," Tony said, and Charles had no reply to that - Mary was a beautiful girl, and she had always shown both her parents' sharp intelligence combined with her mother's dignity, even as a little girl. It was an enticing combination, but more enticing yet was the prospect of keeping his head. Charles had a reputation for plucking more than one flower just newly in bloom, but this flower was not worth the risk.

"She is the King's daughter," he said at last. "To disrespect her would be to disrespect the King."

Even if it wouldn't, not really - Henry had made it perfectly clear that he cared little and less for Mary, and would probably laugh along with any insult shown to her at court - Charles knew better than to think that indifference would extend to such a thing as his taking Mary to bed. The King's reaction would be a thousand times worse than when Charles married Margaret, he knew that, at least.

"Not everyone thinks that way," Tony said, tilting his head ever so slightly towards the Boleyns. "Our friends think the King ought to order that you arrange for the Lady to marry one of your stableboys, to keep her out of the Princess' way."

"You can't be serious," Charles said, genuinely surprised - he knew the Boleyns were brazen, but surely even they knew better than to insult _anyone_ of Tudor blood to Henry?

"They've even offered to find a husband for her, if you won't," Tony said, biting into an apple he'd produced from somewhere. "Seems they weren't happy when you interfered in their plan to bring her low by forcing her to serve in the Princess' household."

Charles hadn't meant to interfere in any plans, but Thomas More had come to him, asking him to intercede. Charles didn't know how More knew of the King's plan - supposedly the Boleyns' plan - but apparently he had heard of it, and did not wish to see his beloved Queen Katherine's daughter treated so ill. He had thought that Charles' friendship with Henry might be enough to convince Henry to be kinder, and while Charles had doubted it at the time, More had been right, as he was in so many things.

"Who was saying this?" he asked Tony. For better or worse, he was Mary's guardian now, and he had the final say in who she wed... Unless Henry chose for her. The Boleyns had his ear now, and if they decided they wanted her wed to some blackguard from the depths of Wales, well, it would be a small matter for them to convince the King, and there would be nothing Charles could do. Best to intercede now, carefully, and hope to spare Mary that. "Was it Wiltshire himself?"

"Rochford," Tony said, nodding again when George Boleyn's watching became obvious once more. "The other night, during the revels."

Well, that was something, at least - George was never in control of the Boleyns' plots, and if he had said all this during the revels, he had said it while drunk out of his mind, in all likelihood. It could be that there was no Boleyn plot to see Mary married off at all.

She was well out of the way at Westhorpe, after all. She could remain there, unmarried, as a companion to little Cathy when she and Edward married, and become nurse and tutor to their children. There was honour in it, after all, so Henry ought not be offended by the notion. Or Charles could find a husband for her - he had cousins who would gladly take her to wife, if only for the dowry Henry would likely offer.

It just all seemed badly done.

"She was a sweet little girl," Tony said. "It wouldn't do to see her ruined."

"How very sentimental," Charles said dryly, but he couldn't help agreeing. Mary _had_ been a very sweet child, and had seemed sweet enough still, during the few days Charles had spent at Westhorpe after her arrival. Edward certainly seemed to like her well enough, although Charles had to admit that his son took to anyone who spoke to him kindly, so that was no true indication. That there were no bad reports of her at all, though... "Excuse me, Sir Anthony," he said. "I must seek out the King."

"Your Grace," Tony said, bowing his head more in surprise than anything. "Don't do anything rash, Charles - you know how well he likes being told what to do."

Henry, when Charles found him, seemed in excellent spirits, and guided Charles outside into the gardens. It was a brisk day, bright and sharp, and Charles smiled when Henry huddled deeper into his cloak - it was good that some things never changed. So much had changed in just the short time since Henry had named him a duke that the world before seemed like a foreign country, and to know that some things were the same was almost a comfort.

“May I speak freely, Your Majesty?” he asked, thinking carefully how to phrase this - Mary was such a volatile topic with Henry that it was dangerous to mention her, more often than not, so Charles knew better than to bring her up without due cause. “It is with regard to some rumours that have been brought to my attention.”

Henry motioned for him to continue, one eyebrow quirked in interest.

“I am told,” Charles began, “that there has been some discussion of finding a husband for the Lady Mary?”

Henry looked so surprised that Charles regretted bringing it up, now - clearly it had just been George Boleyn in one of his drunken stupors, and Charles had likely made a target of himself for Henry’s abundant temper. He could only hope that Henry would not think that he had brought this up as a means of forwarding Mary’s interests, and thereby committing bloody _treason_. He wouldn’t be much good to Edward, or to Cathy or Mary, if he was short a head. At least Frances would have her aunt’s protection, up in Scotland, but the others would be at Henry’s dubious mercy.

“Where did you hear that?” the King demanded, taking Charles by the front of his doublet and drawing them both to a halt. “Who told you this?”

“It is but a rumour,” Charles assured him, “Henry, it’s only a rumour - she is my ward, though, and I thought it best to be certain.”

Henry released him, laughing as though at some great jest, but Charles knew him well enough to see the gleam of worry in his eyes. Despite Henry’s pretended confidence in parting with Rome, Charles knew that he still feared what the Emperor might do in Mary’s name, especially now that Henry’s battle to marry Anne had yielded only another daughter.

* * *

 

“It has been brought to my attention that there are some among you who would concern yourselves with the well-being of my eldest daughter, the Lady Mary,” the King said, leaning over the table and staring them all hard in the eye. Charles knew that look - it meant Henry had devised some grand scheme, and Charles loathed that he had been party to its conception. “My lord Suffolk, of whose household she is currently a member, has shared with me rumours of her marrying. Can any of you corroborate these rumours, my lords?”

Charles ignored the way Norfolk and Wiltshire looked at him, choosing instead to look to George Boleyn, his primary source for these rumours. To his relief, Boleyn had gone pale, and was looking to his father and Norfolk with something between embarrassment and worry there in his eyes. For a man who usually seemed in such perfect control of himself, it seemed odd that he should be so openly upset over the disruption of his family’s plans for the Lady Mary.

“No?” Henry pressed. “None of you have anything to say? None of you have heard these rumours?”

Charles watched Henry watch his councillors, waiting for him to notice the queer look on George Boleyn’s face, and was startled when Norfolk was the first to break the silence.

“Since, Your Majesty, not one of the rest of us have heard these… Rumours of Lord Suffolk’s,” he said, “could it be that he himself is the source?”

Charles laughed, expecting Henry to do the same, and felt his stomach twist when he saw how intently Henry was staring at him across the table. Surely he didn’t believe that Charles had started these rumours? What possible purpose could he have in doing so?

“Surely Your Majesty does not think-”

“It had occurred to me,” the King said quietly, “and some of my councillors agree, that you might have brought these supposed rumours to my attention because you seek the Lady Mary’s hand for yourself.”

Norfolk was smiling, and Wiltshire’s face had twisted into that smug approximation of a smile that had always so discomfited Margaret. _Damn_ them for getting to Henry, and damn Henry for telling that woman’s family absolutely bloody everything! Mary was his daughter just as much as Elizabeth, how could he care so little for her that he would discuss her with people who patently did not have her best interests in mind?

“The Lady Mary is my ward,” Charles said firmly. “She is also Your Majesty’s daughter, and her welfare is my only concern.”

“You do not think she would make a good wife, Lord Suffolk?” Wiltshire asked, as if offended on the Lady’s behalf. Charles clenched his fist under the table, the better to give at least the appearance of control, and wondered how to insist that, however pleasing a wife the Lady Mary might make to other men, Charles was not currently looking for a wife.

Which was true - Margaret’s death was not even a year past, and while Charles knew that he had hardly been an ideal husband, that he had not treated her as well as he ought to have done, he _had_ loved her. If he wed again, it would not be for some time, and it would not be to Margaret’s _niece_.

“Do you not think she is an ideal bride for one such as yourself, my lord?” Norfolk said, smiling at some grand joke that he had obviously shared already with Wiltshire and Rochford. “A royal bastard for a common duke - fitting, is it not?”

And yes, Charles knew that to them, it was perfect - had it not been for his friendship with Henry, and Henry’s eventual acceptance of his and Margaret’s marriage, Charles knew that he would never have been accepted by the peerage, and to wed Mary to him would be an excellent means of reducing her in the eyes of those monarchs in Europe who might otherwise have supported her claim. None of the great powers on the continent would want to see a throne pass into the hands of a king with the blood of a commoner, even if that king’s mother had one of the finest pedigrees in Christendom.

One look at Henry was all it took to confirm that Norfolk and the Boleyns had already let him in on their joke.

“The Lady Mary would be a fine wife for any man,” he said, letting his shoulders drop as he acknowledged his defeat. “She is a clever, accomplished young woman, and a credit to Your Majesty.”

And that was that.

* * *

 

Mary had spent the time since the Duke had departed for the bastard’s christening as she had spent the time before, in Cathy and Edward’s company, determinedly not thinking about her father.

She truly enjoyed the time spent with Cathy, she playing the virginals while Cathy read or sometimes sang. Edward had longer hours to spend with his tutor than Cathy, and Mary was too old for lessons, which meant that it was often just the two of them together. Cathy had a good ear for music, and enjoyed speaking of religion almost as much as Mary did - even though she was rather less strict in her adherence to doctrine than Mary might have liked, she was still as engaging a companion as Mary could wish for.

So it was in the library with Cathy that Edward found her when Sir Anthony Knivert came calling from London, drenched to the skin and red in the face.

“Look, cousin Mary!” Edward said. “Uncle Tony has come to visit!”

Edward’s smile reminded Mary uncomfortably of her father’s, so she gladly turned to greet Sir Anthony rather than return her cousin’s delight.

“Welcome to Westhorpe, Sir Anthony,” she said. “I’m afraid the Duke is absent-”

“I know, my lady,” he broke in. “It’s Charles- that is, the Duke that sent me. I was in London with him, my lady, and he sent me with a message for you. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”

“You can use Father’s study,” Edward chirped from his perch on the edge of the nearest table. “He shan’t mind, Uncle, I’m sure of it.”

Mary motioned for Cathy to remain where she was, with Edward, and followed Sir Anthony out of the room and up the stairs. Had her father decided to place her in the- in his new daughter’s household after all? Was she to be escorted like a criminal to wherever the false Princess of Wales’ household was to be established? Was that why Sir Anthony was here - the mighty Charles Brandon, too ashamed to have broken his promise of care to her?

She near jumped out of her skin when Sir Anthony closed the door behind her. She hadn’t even noticed their entering the Duke’s study, but they were here, and the side door was firmly closed, which meant Edward and Cathy hadn’t even scurried up the back stairs to listen in.

“Charles asked that I give you this,” he said, handing her a letter with Lord Suffolk’s seal. “I am sorry for this, my lady. None of us would wish you any harm, you must know that.”

That was a strange sentiment to express, but one Mary trusted all the same - Anthony Knivert, Charles Brandon, and poor dead William Compton had been as much a part of her life as her mother’s ladies when she was a child, and they had always spoiled her in the way childless men spoiled their friends’ children. Sir Anthony had never looked so uncomfortable in her presence before, she thought as she broke the seal on the letter, and almost immediately, she knew why.

_Lady Mary,_

_I write to share with you the glad news that your father the King has in his most gracious kindness arranged for you and I to marry. I ride now for the More to share our happy tidings with your lady mother, Her Highness the Dowager Princess of Wales. We will wed within a month of my return to Westhorpe Hall._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk_

Mary looked up at Sir Anthony, leaning against the edge of the massive desk with his arms folded, and tried to force words past the knot of panic in her throat.

“He had no choice,” Sir Anthony said quietly. “George Boleyn was talking nonsense about marrying you off, and Charles didn’t want to risk the Boleyns convincing the King to send you off to who knows where just to be rid of you-”

“My father would not-”

“Your father would do anything to ensure the Princess Elizabeth’s place, my lady,” Sir Anthony said, and Mary felt very small. “Charles brought Boleyn’s talk to the King as a rumour, and it seems that the King raised the subject with the Boleyns, and they convinced him that Charles was an ideal suitor.”

The room seemed to be spinning, and Mary almost didn’t notice how weak her knees had become until Sir Anthony had helped her into the nearest chair.

“I cannot marry Lord Suffolk,” she said. “He- he was married to my aunt! We-”

“He has spoken to Ambassador Chapuys, my lady. Charles couldn’t be seen to write to Rome himself, but the ambassador is going to obtain a dispensation for you.” He moved towards the door, looking once more uncomfortable and unsure. “I’ll leave you to gather your thoughts, my lady,” Sir Anthony said gently. She watched the door close before pressing her hands over her face, as if to hold back her tears.

All was lost, then. It seemed so terribly unfair that Mary’s father should take her whole life from her and still think it his place to arrange her marriage, all without letting her see her mother even once.

* * *

 

Charles pushed his hair back from his face as neatly as he could, knowing that it was likely pointless. Lady Darrell had gone to announce him to the Queen- that is, to the Princess Dowager, and he was only glad that he was clearly the first to have arrived. He had barely set out an hour before Thomas Boleyn from Whitehall, and had feared that he would be overtaken at some point along the way.

Not so, he was glad to find, and even gladder for the Princess Dowager’s sake than for his own. Her household was meagre at best, her circumstances appalling, and from Lady Darrell’s face, it didn’t seem that her health was much better.

Indeed, she was sitting by the fire, dressed warmly against any chill, and seemed frailer than Charles could ever remember her being, even during her spells of ill health after her miscarriages, or her son’s death.

“Lord Brandon,” she said, smiling even though he knew she had little reason to regard him with any warmth. “You are most welcome. Lady Darrell tells me you have news of my Mary?”

He chose to stand, even when she waved him into the seat opposite her, feeling more awkward than he could ever remember being. This was somehow just as bad as kneeling and begging Henry’s forgiveness so he could return to court.

“His Majesty has found a husband for the Lady Mary,” he said, guilt surging up his throat when the Princess Dowager’s face paled. “I begged permission to be the one to tell you the news of her upcoming marriage.”

“She is your ward,” Katherine said, sounding miles away. “Who is it that my husband has found to wed our daughter? Is he French?”

“No, madam,” Charles said uneasily, thinking that likely that was the only mark in his favour - at least he was not a Valois. “The King has decreed that the Lady Mary should marry- that she and I are to wed, and before Christmas.”

He watched as she rose, very, very slowly, and crossed the room to stand before him.

“You are telling me,” she said, her voice quiet and polite and viciously, bitterly cold, “that the King of England, _my husband_ , has decreed that our daughter, a young lady of _peerless_ royal heritage - on her mother’s side, at least - should marry an up-jumped _commoner_?”

“Well, madam,” Charles managed, “at least I am not French.”

She laughed at that, shrill and hysterical, and walked slowly back to her warm seat by the fire.

“You cannot marry her without a Papal dispensation,” she said. “Regardless of what Henry has decided for himself, I will find some way to stop this marriage if you try to force my daughter to live in sin with you.”

“Ambassador Chapuys is writing already to His Holiness on my behalf,” he promised her, finally taking the seat on the other side of the hearth. “I understand that Lady Mary is as devout as you, madam, and I would not ask it of her to live in sin even without your insistence.”

She seemed to consider this, and took a long while in doing so. Then she nodded, just once, and looked him in the eye.

“You are to be my son-in-law, then,” she said. “And also the son-in-law of the King. Has he written to our daughter, do you know? Or has he left her care solely in your hands?”

“The King is very busy-”

“So in your hands, then,” she said, nodding again. “Very well - as my son-in-law, or very nearly, will you do a great favour for me? Will you carry a letter to my Mary? It has been so long since we were allowed to write to one another-”

“Of course, madam,” he said. “I know that it would mean a great deal to her, as well as to you.”

He slipped Katherine’s letter into his doublet, hidden away from view, just as Thomas Boleyn swept in, without having waited to be announced.

* * *

 

Mary had dutifully sent for a dressmaker the day after Sir Anthony had brought her the news. The woman had come that afternoon, with a veritable army of helpers, who spread bolts of silk and satin and damask out across the whole of the library for Mary and Cathy to peruse. Edward assured her that money was no object, for his father was a very wealthy man, but Mary was painfully aware of her own poor state, and did not wish to impose on the Duke for something so simple as her _wedding dress._

If right was right - if that woman hadn’t meddled - Mary’s father would be paying for not only her dress, but the wedding feast, and any entertainments he thought suitable for the occasion. As it was, Mary supposed that it would be herself, Cathy, Edward, Lord Brandon, and maybe Sir Anthony and Lady Salisbury. She did not imagine her father would give permission for her mother to come even for this, and she did not know anyone else she might wish to be present, except for maybe Ambassador Chapuys, who had always been so kind to both her and her mother.

The fabrics were all in shades of white and cream, highlighted in gold. Mary would have liked a touch of silver, as was traditional for a royal bride, but did not quite know how to ask - was it inappropriate? She was still a Tudor, was she not? Did she not bear her father’s name, even if he might wish otherwise? Did her royal blood make her a royal bride, or did her father taking her title away from her render her a commoner?

“I should go with something in the gold, Mary,” Cathy said quietly, taking Mary’s hand away from a lovely light cream satin threaded ever-so-lightly with pale silver. “It would be lovely against your hair, and a deeper cream would add a touch of colour to your cheeks. Look, there’s a very nice damask just over here I think you might like.”

In the end, Mary chose a plain white satin, thinking that it would be easily dyed to be made more practical, and because it was less expensive than any of the richer materials. She could just about afford it on her tiny allowance, as well, which meant she would not need to rely on Lord Brandon for anything but the absolute minimum.

Cathy was in charge of the arrangements, such as they were, and Mary was more than happy to let her have her way on everything from the flowers to what might be served at dinner that night - for Mary knew that there would not be enough guests to rightly call it a feast - and chose to spend her days in the chapel in the village. It was a pretty building, with some beautiful windows and a lovely fresco behind the altar, and Mary found great peace there.

It would be there, in just a few more days or weeks or whenever Lord Brandon thought to return, at that lovely altar, that Mary would become the Duchess of Suffolk, and effectively acknowledge the lesser status her father and his whore had forced upon her before all those who might support her, from her cousin the Emperor to the Holy Father himself. It made her sick with anger, and something that felt dangerously close to hatred, too, which she tried her best to keep from tainting her feelings for her father.

It was hard, though - it was desperately hard to not at least resent him for reducing her to this, for taking her from the most eligible bride in all of Europe to the bride of the least noble peer in all her father’s domain. It was impossible not to resent him for how he treated her lady mother, too, and for how easily he had tossed them both aside, and for how he kept them apart just because they would not bend to his will.

It was hard not to hate that he had so readily cast her aside for even just the hope of a son.

She was startled out of her considerations by someone sitting in the pew beside her, and didn’t know quite how to react when she lifted her head to find Ambassador Chapuys, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his gaze focused on the altar.

“Excellency,” she said, pushing herself to her feet and attempting to straighten her skirts. “I- I was not expecting to see you.”

“I arrived with the Duke,” he said, rising and bowing to her. “And also with Sir Anthony Knivert, and the Lady Salisbury. I had hoped that the King might allow your mother to come, but alas, it seems he still fears that she might convince you to stage a coup on her behalf.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile on the Ambassador’s face, but Mary saw no reason to laugh. Her father very likely did not trust her not to rise up against him and the harlot, and that was the most probable cause of his having arranged for this marriage.

“I have with me something that will hopefully offer you some comfort in these strange days,” Chapuys said gently. “On Lord Suffolk’s request, I wrote to His Holiness the Pope to request a papal dispensation on your behalf - the Holy Father acquiesced gladly, and also sends his regards and his assurances that you have his utmost support against the Boleyn woman and her bastard.”

Mary smiled, or at least, she tried to, but it all seemed so pointless. Her father had robbed her of her means of being taken seriously, of her chances of finding real support in among the Catholic monarchs on the continent. The Pope’s moral support was welcome, and she was grateful for it, but she did not see that it would do her any good, no more than the Emperor’s promises of loyalty and support would.

She had no choice but to marry Lord Brandon, a man who was widowed less than a year, a man who was her father’s closest friend and loyalist supporter, a man who had been married to her _aunt_. In doing so, she would sign away her own legitimacy, for a royal princess who was heiress apparent to the throne of England would never wed a mere _duke_.

She had been so happy when Lord Brandon had taken her as his ward. She had thought that his loyalty to her aunt’s memory, his being father to her cousins, she had thought that those things might make him treat her with kindness. She felt a fool, now, and wondered how much it had taken for him to convince her father to give her to him as his new bride.

Suddenly, brilliantly, she was angry with _him_ , this man who had treated her with the benevolence of an uncle, who was now going to claim her as a prize, who had spent time making certain that she was at her ease in his home only to maneuver her into his bed. God in Heaven, had he decided to marry her when she arrived here at Westhorpe, because of some resemblance she bore to her aunt? Was he some sort of depraved deviant, to take a woman who looked so much like his son, like the miniature Edward had of little Frances, to bed?

She hardly even realised she was crying until Chapuys guided her close, pressing her into his arms and petting her hair. She had vague memories of her father doing something similar when she had gone to him, terribly upset, when it was announced that Aunt Margaret was leaving for Portugal, and that made it all so much worse, for if Margaret had never gone to Portugal, Lord Brandon would still be Sir Charles at best, and Mary would not…

Mary would likely be serving in her half-sister’s household if Lord Brandon hadn’t taken her on. She would likely be festering away under the rule of whatever Howard or half-Howard had been placed in charge of the _princess’_ household. She would not know Edward, or have Cathy’s friendship.

But she would have the support of the Catholic monarchs of Europe, she reminded herself. She would still stand a chance of reclaiming her place in the succession, no matter what the harlot convinced her father to do. To wed the Duke with so small a struggle was to give in, and accept that the harlot had _won._

And Charles Brandon was the instrument of Mary’s surrender, and for that, she hated him.

* * *

 

Charles had left word with Edward and Cathy that they were to send Mary to him as soon as she returned from the chapel. He knew that Ambassador Chapuys had gone to her, to tell her of the dispensation, just as he knew Tony would likely drag Edward out to the gardens or the stables, demanding to know of all Edward’s misadventures since last Tony had visited, and just as he knew Cathy would capably keep Lady Salisbury entertained in the library until Charles had dealt with Mary. She looked enough like Henry and Margaret both that he had no reason to doubt that she shared their temper, and could only hope that she had enough of her mother’s reserve to hold back the often physical violence to which Henry was so prone.

Margaret had been prone to it, too, when in a true temper. She had never been so beautiful as she was when caught up in a passion - anger and lust and the joy he had only ever truly seen in her when she was with Edward and Frances - but she had never been so dangerous, either. His jaw still smarted to remember the strength in her slender hands.

He couldn’t help but smile, all the same. They’d fucked on this very desk more than once after a fight, and Margaret had always insisted that they’d conceived Frances on the hearthrug in the library.

He was still smiling when Mary slammed her way into his study, thinking of Margaret and barely remembering that he had set Tony and Cathy to distract Edward and Lady Salisbury solely because he had anticipated that Mary would be in a temper when she arrived.

And _what_ a temper.

She was red in the face, and red-eyed, too, as though she had been weeping. She looked so much like Henry that, for a moment, it was wholly disconcerting. He had never truly noticed how much like her father she looked, always seeing more of Margaret, or even Prince Arthur, of whom he had dim recollections. Now, though, all he could see was a Henry who had flown into a rage when Francis Valois defeated him in a wrestling match.

He waited a moment to allow the echoes of the slamming door to fade, then rose to his feet.

“Lady Mary.”

She stood there, too angry to speak, and he waited for her to calm down. He had fought often enough with Margaret to know that he would only lose his own temper if he attempted to confront her before hers had cooled, after all.

“I trust you received my note? Sir Anthony assured me that he had put it in your hand himself, but if he did not-”

“I received your _note,_ ” she said, and he thought she might have even stamped her foot. “And Sir Anthony’s excuses for your seeking my hand-”

“I did not _seek_ your hand,” he said firmly, coming around the desk to better look her in the eye. “I sought to save you from a Boleyn marriage, and your _father_ was the one who sought our marriage - I am sure that you, like your mother, do not think me a worthy match-”

“I am the rightful heir to the English throne!” she shrieked, and God above but she had never looked as much like Margaret as she did in that moment. “I am the sole legitimate child of the King of England! I should be marrying, I should be betrothed to the Dauphin, or to the Prince of Asturias! I am _worth more_ than some backwater commoner duke!”

“Well, Ave _bloody_ Maria, then!” he snapped. “I shall ride for Whitehall immediately and tell the King of his error, and while I am there, I shall negotiate a marriage contract with Ambassador Chapuys and you will marry the Prince of Asturias as soon as he is old enough to come here and fuck you!”

He stood straight, sure that she was finished, or at least that her temper was broken - she had all of Henry’s stubbornness, but none of his confidence, and Charles knew that he had shouted. Surely that would have at least startled her out of her tantrum!

He hardly had time to finish that thought before her hand caught him smack on the cheek, a vicious whip-crack that took him utterly by surprise.

He took a moment to test his jaw - to test his _teeth!_ \- before turning back to her. She seemed shocked by what her hand had done, and was watching him in something that looked terribly close to fear.

Margaret had never feared him, not even when their arguments had turned into battles, and it was a sharp reminder that Mary was still so very young, that she had been treated so ill these past years. He would have to treat her more gently than he ever had her aunt.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean that - but please, my lady, you must understand that whatever your feelings or mine might be regarding this marriage, it _must_ happen. The King has commanded that we wed, and neither one of us can afford to anger him by refusing.”

She still looked angry, but less so with him than with their situation.

“I have a letter for you from your mother,” he said. “She was… Less than pleased about this arrangement, but she did seem relieved that I am at least not a Frenchman.”

She smiled just a bit at that, a small, tight smile that reminded him of Margaret, but at least it was a smile. That was good - it meant she did not entirely hate him, he supposed.

“That does sound like something she would say,” she admitted. “I have not had a letter from her in- in such a long time. May I…?”

“Of course!” he said, reaching into his doublet to retrieve Lady Katherine’s note. It was a little rumpled, and doubtless didn’t smell as sweet as it had when it left Mary’s mother’s hand, but Mary took it as though it were a jewel without price.

“You are not the man I would have chosen as my husband,” she said, her voice unsteady and uncertain, “but that you defy my father in this, that you would bring me a letter from my mother… Thank you.”

She was at the door when she paused, one hand on the doorframe, and looked back over her shoulder, smiling that small smile again.

“I am sorry,” she said, “for slapping you, Your Grace.”

He laughed - he couldn’t help it.

“I have had worse, my lady,” he assured her, and he sat at his desk when she closed the door behind her, trying to wonder which of his sins had earned him a second wife with a Tudor temper.

* * *

 

Mary let Cathy lace her into her gown and sat as quietly as she could while her maids set her veil in place. Lady Salisbury, too, was helping her ready herself, and had offered to give her away in her mother’s name - but that as not to be, because His Majesty the King had in fact sent Sir Anthony Knivert to do just that, in _his_ name.

Sir Anthony was waiting outside her bedchamber door, dressed in fine deep blue that suited him better than Mary’s pale white suited her, and he looked almost apologetic - doubtless he had planned on telling her that had it not been for affairs of state, her father would have given her away himself, but Mary knew that was not so. She was only a bastard marrying a duke, after all, not his beloved Elizabeth.

“Sir Anthony,” she said, taking his proffered arm. “Thank you.”

“If I may, my lady,” he said, leading her down the stairs, “there are worse men to be married to than Charles. At least you can be sure he will never strike you.”

No, he would not hit her, but she had hit him - it all felt entirely surreal, and had done so from the moment Sir Anthony had arrived with that blasted note from Lord Suffolk.

 _Charles,_ she reminded herself. _I ought to call him Charles, now, for he will be my husband within the hour._

The walk to the chapel seemed endless and altogether too short, all at once. Mary’s head was spinning so much that, just outside the doors, Sir Anthony and Cathy each took one of her elbow’s to keep her from swooning. There did not seem to be enough air, and her gown seemed too tight, and it was terribly, terribly warm considering it was November.

“Mary? Mary, are you quite well?”

Edward, dear, sweet Edward, was on his knees before her - oh, when had she sat down? Was her gown muddied? - and his face was pale with concern.

“Father would have come himself,” he said, “but I think he feels that you are frightened of him, Mary - will you come? He seems terribly anxious.”

Mary laughed at that, leaning eagerly against Cathy, desperately trying to catch her breath, _terrified_ , so afraid she could not breathe could not think-

Strong hands caught her shoulders from behind, gently guiding her to sit straight and then, oh, _oh_ , thumbs digging into the tight-pulled muscle of her neck and easing the tension that held her arms rigid by her sides, easing the ache in her head.

“Slow,” Lord Suffolk said quietly. “Breathe slowly, my lady. Keep your eyes closed, and take deep, slow, breaths.”

It helped, and even eased the shaking of her hands, and by the time she opened her eyes, Edward and Cathy and Lady Salisbury were gone, as was Sir Anthony, but Ambassador Chapuys was standing before her with his hands folded inside his sleeves. His face was perfectly smooth, but his eyes were bright with sympathy - Mary felt almost distracted by the warmth of Lord Suffolk’s hands on her shoulders, though, and the warmth of him behind her. He seemed terribly large, but also oddly gentle, with his thumbs still smoothing over and back across her nape.

“If I may, Lord Suffolk,” the Ambassador said, “I believe you are supposed to be at the altar?”

Mary gasped at the rush of cold against the back of her neck when Lord Brandon removed his hands, shivering when he adjusted her veil so it fell down her back once more, and smiled uncertainly when he bowed and slipped through the doors into the chapel.

“If it is your desire,” Ambassador Chapuys said quietly, “I will object to this marriage and see to it that you have safe passage to anywhere within the Empire that you would like to go.”

Mary smiled and tucked her hand into his arm.

“No, Ambassador,” she said, thinking of her mother’s letter - _He is not a man I would have chosen for you, but there are worse men to whom your father might have wed you_ \- and shaking her head. “I will not dishonour my father like that. Come,” she said, “I am supposed to be married today.”

The chapel had been bare even just last night, when Mary had come back after dinner to pray for solace, for strength, but now, someone had bedecked the altar and the railings all in sprays of berry-heavy hollies and sprigs of bright heathers.

Cathy and Edward, clearly, for they both were smiling as if they had conspired in some grand scheme, and they had spent near the whole day outside the day before yesterday. She was touched that they would go to so much trouble for her sake, and somehow, that calmed her mounting nerves just as easily as Lord Suffolk’s big hands on her shoulders had.

Ambassador Chapuys laid her hand in one of Lord Suffolk’s, startling her out of her revery, and then it was a matter of a simple, short ceremony all in Latin, which was a comfort, and the brush of his mouth to hers. She was surprised by how gentle he was, and was surprised to find that that, too, was a comfort to her.

The day passed in a daze, after that kiss. It was her first, and she found herself disappointed that it had come on the day of her wedding. As a girl, she had dreamed of being wooed by her betrothed, of exchanging letters and miniatures and, yes, kisses, of knowing one another before wedding. She knew that it was silly, girlish thing to wish, but wish it she had, just as she wished, just a little, that Lord Suffolk’s kindness and gentleness today meant that he might try to woo her, at least a little. Her aunt Margaret, before she went to Portugal, when Mary was just a little girl, had told her of how her father had wooed her mother, and how he had continued to do so even past their wedding, and Mary _hoped_ , well, she hoped that she might have some of the happiness her parents had shared in the early days of their marriage.

Lady Salisbury and Cathy both helped her dress for bed, much later that night, Cathy putting away Mary’s meagre jewels in their little casket while Lady Salisbury brushed out her hair.

“I am sure Lord Brandon will treat you most graciously, Mary,” Cathy said softly, sitting by Mary’s side and taking her hand. “He is a kind man, Mary, even if he is sometimes uncouth.”

“He has certainly had enough practice that he ought know how to make the act comfortable,” Lady Salisbury said, setting aside the brush and gesturing for Mary to rise. “Come, my lady - the priest will bless the marriage bed, and then you will truly become Lord Suffolk’s wife.”

* * *

 

Mary awoke in the morning with the heavy weight of her new husband’s arm across her waist, his thigh pressed between hers, and squirmed in embarrassment to remember what she had done the night before.

He had been more than gentle and gracious, and she had cried out so _lewdly_ , and more than once at that - but he had not seemed to take offence or think her sluttish, had rather seemed to like it, honestly, and when the time had come for him to make a woman of her in truth, he had been careful of her, and had not rushed her when she winced in pain.

But even so - to cry out as she had! How was she to look him in the eye, when he awoke? Surely by light of day he would think her behaviour slatternly, wouldn’t he?

She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and winced at the tenderness between her legs - it was not so painful as she had been taught it would be, but she supposed she ought to sit carefully for a time, until the ache passed. She could bend to fetch her nightgown and her robe easily enough, and had little difficulty or discomfort when she used the water in the ewer to clean the stickiness from her sex and thighs.

So, that was what it was to share a bed with a man. Sluttish and slatternly or not, she had… Well, she had rather liked it, although she would never admit such a thing to any other person, except for her confessor.

A maid was waiting for her in the outer chamber, and shepherded her back to her own rooms for a bath and to dress. She supposed Lord Br- no, he had asked her to call him by his name, she supposed that _Charles_ would have been woken by his man by now, and that he would join her downstairs for the morning meal. She presumed that their guests would also be present for the meal, and realised with a sharp sort of surprise that she was now their hostess.

Oh, this was all so terribly strange!

Stranger still was that her maid, a small, plain girl of about her own age, had dressed her in a gown of rich, deep blue silk, trimmed with soft white fur at the cuffs. It was a beautiful gown, and fit her well, but she did not recognise it as her own.

“His Grace ordered many gowns for you,” the girl said quietly, “and had the dressmaker model them on the measurements for your wedding gown, my lady.”

It was the sort of gesture she had not expected, but one that was welcome all the same - Mary’s income had been so reduced in the past two years or so that she had scarce been able to clothe herself, and had arrived with only heavy winter gowns, for it had been a choice between enough warm gowns to see her through the winter or a few prettier ones for the autumn and no furs.

This… This was beautiful. She did not doubt that the others Lord- that the other gowns that Charles had ordered for her were just as lovely.

She found all the household already in attendance when she arrived for the meal. Ambassador Chapuys and Lady salisbury were deep in serious conversation - doubtless of matters theological - at the end of the table nearest the door. Her husband and Sir Anthony, meanwhile, were entertaining Edward and Cathy with some energetic tale or other - Mary remembered them often doing the same while she was still at court, they and William Compton japing and jesting and making fun of one another, making her laugh more gaily than any masque or play ever had. The three of them together had had a gift for storytelling, and while she missed poor William, who had been kind, if a touch austere, she could see that his absence made little difference to Edward and Cathy’s enjoyment.

“My lady,” Charles hailed her, rising before the rest and crossing the room to offer her his arm. “Did you sleep well? You were gone before I woke.”

“I am quite well, my lord,” she assured him, hoping that he would not notice the blush she could feel rising in her cheeks for being so close to him, now that she knew what lay underneath his fine clothes. “And you?”

“Very well,” he said, smiling brightly as he guided her into the seat between his own and Edward’s at the table. “In fact, I have some… Interesting news for you, my lady.”

“My lord?”

He beckoned one of the servers, who brought forward a letter on a small silver platter, one bearing a seal that looked almost familiar to Mary, but not quite.

“It comes from the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Lord Henry Fitzroy,” Charles said, leaning against the arm of his chair and reading the letter over her shoulder. “He is your brother, my lady, and would visit you, if you permit it.”

Mary was on the verge of pointing out that it was highly improper for a _bastard_ to request to visit her, but then, was she not a bastard, too?

“I do not believe I have ever met my brother,” she said quietly, finding it in herself to meet her husband’s eyes as she had doubted should would be able. “With my lord’s permission, I should like to host him here, before Christmas.”

 ****  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Mary hadn't known quite what to expect of her half-brother, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset.

She could remember, in a vague sort of way, when he had been born. Her mother had been distraught, and Sir Thomas More who had always been so kind had been angered, she knew, by the spectacle even Mary could remember her father making. Even Cardinal Wolsey had seemed perturbed - Mary remembered it well, because she could not otherwise remember the good cardinal being anything other than perfectly composed - but that had not deterred her father. 

Mary remembered Lady Blount, Henry Fitzroy's mother, well enough. She had been a quiet woman with fine, sad eyes, who gave all appearances of the absolute propriety Mary's own mother had expected of her household, and Mary had quite liked her - Lady Blount had always been willing to play with Mary, as she was among the youngest of her mother's maids before Mary left for Ludlow, and had always honoured Mary truly as her princess, even before she departed to have her bastard.

What Mary got, when Henry Fitzroy arrived at Westhorpe Hall with a small company of retainers and a menagerie of dogs, all too fat and glossy to be aught but pets, was nothing she had imagined.

He was a tall, strong-built boy, fourteen to Mary's seventeen, with those fine, sad grey eyes Mary had so admired in his mother, along with her fair, curly hair. Other than that, though, he was the very image of Mary's father, when last she remembered seeing the King - his father as well, she supposed, watching the way he vaulted down off his horse and envying him the circumstances of his bastardy as opposed to her own. How fine his horse! How luxuriant his clothing! She had barely had enough to maintain her household in good order and dress herself as befitting her station, and here he was, with all appearance of great wealth!

Had he not looked so terribly nervous as he approached, she might have resolved to dislike him, but as it was she saw too much of herself in him, and could not.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing low before her, far lower than she curtsied, and smiling charmingly as he rose. "It is the greatest pleasure I have ever known to meet you. I have wanted to for so long, but circumstances have been against us."

"Indeed they have, Your Grace," she responded, offering him her hand, smiling when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He was so much like their father that it surprised her - she could remember the King treating Aunt Margaret just like this, graciously and with apparently sincere affection. "You are most welcome to Westhorpe - I am afraid my husband the Duke was called away to court on the King's business, but he wished me to assure you of his warmest regards and well-wishes."

"I am most grateful for them," Lord Richmond assured her, "but I must beg that Your Grace call me- call me Hal, my lady, for that is what those to whom I am close call me, and I do so desire for us to become close, as brothers and sisters ought to be."

Mary could not help but blush - when last had anyone save Edward or Cathy wished to be close to her? There seemed no guile in her half-brother's face, no hint of deceit, and she could not but trust in his sincerity.

"Well, then," she said, feeling a great deal more daring than she had in a long while, "surely Your Grace ought to also call me by my Christian name?"

 

* * *

 

 

Charles could hardly believe his ears. For the first time in a very long time, he was in agreement with Thomas blasted Boleyn on something!

"Your Majesty is sincere?" Wiltshire said, a furious demand couched in false humility. "Would it not be better to keep the Lady Mary away from court for a time?"

Charles was of the opinion that it was best to keep Mary away from court indefinitely, or at least until such a time as the Queen produced a son, so the Boleyns and their cronies would be less inclined to do Mary harm. He was afraid that, if he were to encourage her return to court before then, the Queen might act against Mary - or her father, or uncle, either of which was more likely than the Queen herself acting against his wife, he supposed.

Whatever the case, he did not think it safe at all to return Mary to court, not yet - he did not think that Mary herself would have any great interest in making her début as the Duchess of Suffolk. It seemed ridiculous that Henry would want Mary at court, knowing how unsafe it would be, knowing how little she would want to honour the woman who had usurped her mother's place, and it also seemed entirely the kind of excess Henry was prone to.

"The Duchess had hoped to spend her first Christmas  _as_ Duchess at home, that is, at Westhorpe, Your Majesty," he said, hoping he could convince Henry, but doubting it to be possible. "She is still becoming accustomed to her place in our household, with my son and our ward."

It wasn't entirely a lie - Edward and Cathy had been discussing all sorts of plans for the Christmas season from the moment he had told them Mary would be coming to live with them, and those plans had changed only a little upon his and Mary's marriage. Mary had to take precedence over Cathy, rather than the other way around, but they were small adjustments and the three of them had delighted in picking out gifts for one another.

Edward had written to tell Charles all about their plans, and to ask to be allowed access to more money so he might buy cloth for Mary for gowns, and a necklace for Cathy - a necklace that he had gone so far as to draw a picture of, with an artistic talent obviously taken from Margaret - and for decorations and amusements, too. It would upset all three of them terribly if he were to arrive home and tell them that it was all for naught. Edward would fly into one of his rare tempers, Cathy would weep, and Mary...

He did not know how Mary might react, in truth, and that meant that he had to be doubly careful - he had to try to keep Mary away from court, at least for a while. Just until the Queen had a son.

"Whatever the Duchess might want, she is my daughter - I would have her at court for the Christmas celebrations, Charles," the King said, a sudden, manic smile flashing sharp on his face. "And perhaps having her nearby will quiet down the dissenters who think she might make use of the privacy of your country estates to stage a coup, eh?"

 

* * *

 

 

"Mary!" Edward called, "Mary, Father and Uncle Tony are coming! Mary, where are you? Mary! Cathy!"

Mary looked to Cathy, surprised - Charles had said that he would be home from court for Christmas, but he was not due until two days before Christmas Eve!

All the same, she allowed Cathy to take her hand and tug her along to the entrance hall. Cathy's affection for Charles had changed since she had met Hal, with whom she was more taken than was proper, and she now seemed just as pleased to see him as Edward was, and in much the same manner, too. The two of them picked at one another's clothes and hair, bickering as if they were already married and settled, and for a moment, Mary was jealous. Would she and  _her_ husband ever be so easy in one another's company? 

Charles and Sir Anthony both looked harried, and tired, as if they had galloped all the way from London, and Sir Anthony barely bowed to her before ushering Edward and Cathy away.

"Whatever is the matter?" she said, turning to Charles. "Is it my father? Is there something wrong?"

"Is Lord Richmond still in residence?" he asked, pressing his hand firm to the small of her back as he guided her into the reception room.

"No, Hal- that is, Lord Richmond, he has been gone for several days, he did not even stay a full week," she said. "Charles, what is going on?"

He closed the door behind them, guided her to the nearest seat, and then stood before her with his hands on his hips. She did not think that she had ever seen him so put out, not even when Edward had fallen from his horse when last Charles was home.

"His Majesty the King has invited you and I to spend Christmas at court," he said, and Mary was certain that her heart had stopped. He couldn't- it wasn't- she wouldn't-

"Mary," she heard, "Mary, calm down, calm down-"

It took the warmth and weight of his hands on her shoulders to draw her back from the edge of panic, and when she looked at him, he as all concern and worry.

_"Why?"_

"He wants his family around him for the Christmas season," Charles said, dropping to one knee before her and taking her hands. "He believes that it would be good for court to see that the royal family are united."

"But he cannot expect that the harlot will happily accept me-"

"You know how he is, my lady," he said helplessly. "Please, Mary, you must see that we cannot defy him in this. They cannot do anything to harm you, not now - the source of any harm that might befall you would be too obvious, they could not act against you without every person in the country knowing that it was them!"

His hands seemed huge around her own, but just holding them was helping her to stay calm. The idea of meeting the harlot in person, of seeing her father again after so long, it was frightening, it truly was! She did not know if she could do it, did not know if she could be brave enough to face them, or if she could honour that rank  _bitch,_ even for her own preservation, and for Charles' and Edward's and Cathy's sakes.

She wondered if her father's rage would touch on Charles' daughter, little Frances away in Scotland with their aunt, and prayed not.

"Mary," Charles said again, squeezing her hands to draw her attention. "Listen to me, my lady, this is important - the King  _will_ expect you to honour the Queen as though you were any other noblewoman."

"Even though I outrank Lady Pembroke?" she snapped, and his jaw flexed. She knew he was losing his patience with her, but she hated so to think of bowing to the harlot!

"Do you think the King will forgive any slight to that woman?" he hissed, leaning forward, so close she could feel the breath of his words on her lips. He was so large, and so warm, and despite that and the anger clear in his eyes, she found she did not fear him. He would philander and he would lie, but she thought that he would never strike her. "Lord Above, Mary, be _sensible!_ He is having Cromwell draw up an Act of Parliament to invest the succession in whatever children he has with the bitch, and I will be voting in favour of it!"

No. No, he was her  _husband,_ he could not betray her so readily-

"If I do not, he will have my head, and likely yours and Edward's as well, and my Frances will be married off to some Howard brat. I will not allow that, and I will not allow  _you_ to in any way endanger my children, so we will go to court, and you  _will_ honour Queen Anne."

 

* * *

 

 

Mary smoothed her hands down the skirt of her gown again, then reached up and touched her fingers to the headdress of ivy and mistletoe she had chosen to wear for the celebrations. She had dyed her wedding gown a rich, deep green, and added an overskirt of heavy green-and-gold damask, and Charles thought she looked very beautiful, even pale with terror and anxiety as she was.

It was rare to see her with her hair all gathered up - as it was now, in a net of fine gold studded with pearls - and he had never truly noticed how lovely the line of her neck was, not even the night before while he had kissed it until she moaned.

She took his arm gratefully when he offered it to her, her hands still shaking, and he pressed his own fingers over hers to try and calm her some little bit. She seemed terribly young, and terribly delicate, and while he did not think that she had any true reason to fear - the King was not so much in thrall to the whore as he had been, not since the birth of Princess Elizabeth in place of the son she had promised him - he could not fault her for it. The King's moods were as mercurial as ever, and while he had always loved Mary when she was a girl at court, he had been affectionate toward her only in brief exhibitions, and he had been nothing but cruel in his treatment of her in more recent times. 

She flinched to be announced as the Duchess of Suffolk, and he pressed his fingers over hers again - just as it had taken her some time to become used to having been forbidden to use the title of Princess, it was taking her some time to become used to being addressed as "Your Grace" by the servants at Westhorpe. She was coping well, though, and seemed to have taken to her duties as duchess with considerable enthusiasm.

He was glad that Mary was relying on him as she was, just now, for she had hardly spoken to him for days after he informed her that he would be voting in favour of the Act of Succession - she had taken it as a personal betrayal, and while he believed he had convinced her of the expediency of doing so, of the  _necessity_ of doing so, her hurts were not to be eased by logic and sense. He could not fault her for that, but that did not make it any less bothersome when she turned her back to him in bed - which she had not done last night, as though being back in London had left her in need of distraction and exertion so she might sleep, which she had done so in his arms for the first time in a long while.

He was also glad that he had agreed to her request that he not present her to Henry during the presentation of the gifts - here, at the revels, it was not so formal, and Mary would not be quite so much the focus of everyone's attention. That was not to say that people were not looking, of course. She was a very lovely young woman, and striking in her gown, was which darker than was usual for the current fashion, and her arriving on his arm left little doubt as to her identity. 

Whatever doubt there might have been was quickly dispelled by the horror on the Queen's face when she noticed them, and the wonder on the King's.

The Queen departed quickly, moving towards her brother, but Henry remained where he was, watching Mary with sharp, too-bright eyes. 

"Your Majesty," Charles said gently, "may I present to you my wife, the Lady Mary?"

Mary dropped almost entirely to the floor in a curtsy, her hand still in Charles' and her head bowed low. Henry stared down at her for a long moment, and then reached out and cupped her chin in his hand, tipping her face up until she had no choice but to look him in the eye.

"Surely this cannot be my own Mary?" he said quietly, motioning for her to rise. Charles was unsurprised when her hand tightened around his, or when she seemed to sway just a little upon rising. She had hardly eaten a morsel all day, and he hoped she would not swoon. "My own daughter?"

"Your Majesty," Mary said, her voice faint. "I thank you for receiving me at court."

"Who could I have at court if not my own daughter, who is now also the wife of my truest friend?" he told her, offering her his arm. She took it uncertainly, her hands shaking visibly, and Charles prayed that Henry would not notice, for surely he would take offence to see her so nervous. 

Charles followed close behind them, but Henry seemed only to wish to display Mary for a moment - he asked her how she liked Westhorpe, made some small teasing comment about how marriage seemed to have put a flush in her cheeks, and released her most willingly back into Charles' care. He seemed as put out as Mary was by the meeting, for all he hid it better under bright, hard smiles that cut as sharp as any sword. 

Mary, though, was shaken, obviously so - what flush there had been in her cheeks was gone once more, and she looked thoroughly dazed by finally, after so long, being reunited with her father. 

"Charles," she said, clutching his arm tight with both hands, turning closer to him, her voice thin and faraway, "I think I might faint."

He avoided any who might have stopped them, for fear Mary's legs might give out - she was leaning on him so heavily he had half a mind to simply hook his arm under her knees and lift her clean from the floor, but he knew her pride would be wounded so sorely she would likely turn him from her bed again if he took such liberties before others - but as soon as he could guide her into one of the many alcoves lining the hall, where they would be hidden from view without needing to beg Henry's permission to be excused, she folded against his chest, her whole body trembling. He did not quite know what to think when he realised she was weeping, hiccuping out prayers for forgiveness between tiny, shivering sobs. 

He stroked his hand up and down her back until the shaking eased and the sorrow passed, at which point she lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were red, the skin under them swollen and tender, and there were stains on her cheeks - flushed once more - from the tears she had shed, but she did seem calmer, and for that, he was thankful. 

"I thought he might be angry with you for bringing me here," she said. "I feared that he might be angry with me for  _being_ here."

"Even if he were, he could not show it," Charles pointed out. "He publicly invited me to bring you here to be presented, after all - he would not admit to being wrong, even if he believed himself to be so in his heart."

She looked uncertain at that, but did not argue, nor did she object when he pulled out his handkerchief to dab away what wetness remained on her face. There was little to be done about the redness of her eyes, but he would not let her go back into the hall, filled with Boleyns and their creatures as it was, looking anything other than her best.

"Better?" he asked, and was rewarded with a wry smile - she had little patience for teasing, he had found - and the press of her hand to his cheek.

"You are kinder to me than you have any reason to be," she said. "Come, my lord - I swore to Edward and Cathy that I would dance with you, and I would not wish to break a promise to either one of them."

 

* * *

 

Mary was at a loss from the moment Charles departed to wait on her father, unsure of what she was to do, since she had no invitations of her own, nor did she know anyone well enough even by reputation to wish to invite them to dine with her. She wished more than anything that Edward or Cathy might have come with them from Westhorpe, save that she might soon return there and be away from the harlot and her family.

She also, surprising herself, found herself wishing for her half-brother's company. Hal had been good company, and more understanding of the in-between nature of being the King's bastard than anyone else could possibly be. She had, in her brother, found another friend. She had gone so long without any true companions that to have found Edward and Cathy and Hal and yes, even Charles, in such a short time that it was near to overwhelming.

Charles was... She was not sure what Charles was. Attracted to her, certainly, for he came to her bed every night unless she asked him not to, and he was undeniably enthusiastic while there. Fond of her, too, she thought, for he seemed to enjoy her company well enough, and sometimes had even sought her out in the evenings before it was time to retire for the night simply to talk.

He seemed proud of her, as well. She had taken on much of the running of the house and estate, and as much of management of their lands as she could - she had been raised to rule, and while her husband's duchy was a fraction the size of the domains she had thought to govern, well, she supposed she would simply have to adapt her mother's whispered instruction on diplomacy from the kings of Europe to the men who sought Charles' aid in disputes over cattle and other such things. 

Charles had sought her advice on such things more than once in just the short seven weeks they had spent as man and wife, and Mary found it... Strange that he should rely on her even slightly in such a way. She remembered, in the vague manner of childish memories, her father admonishing her mother for offering advice on affairs of state, but Charles only ever seemed interested on what she had to say, and even when he disagreed, he explained why, and lost his temper only sort-of. 

It was so terribly strange. He never seemed truly angry with her, even though she knew well enough that he had a fierce temper. Edward had confided in her that his parents had often had blistering rows, particularly after Mary's aunt Margaret sent her cousin Frances to stay with their aunt in Scotland, but even after Mary slapped him, the day before their wedding.

Having seen Charles with Edward, and with Cathy, and even with Hal when he came to visit, she was not surprised that he had been angered by having his child taken from him. He was an enthusiastic father, and clearly adored Edward, and Mary had no reason to believe that he did not love Frances just as much.

She could not help but wonder if he would love their children just as much. She feared not, for he had loved her aunt Margaret so passionately that he had risked losing his head for her sake, but he had wed Mary on her father's orders and for no other reason, and she thought that that would likely make a difference.

A knock on the door of the outer chamber of her and Charles' rooms heralded not his return, as she had hoped, but instead the arrival of Ambassador Chapuys. He bowed low - lower than he should have to a mere duchess, she thought - and smiled to see her.

"Your Grace," he said, kissing her hand and smiling once more. "It gives me the utmost pleasure to welcome you back to court - I saw you speaking with the King yesterday, did I not?"

"Indeed you did, Excellency," she said, motioning for him to sit - their rooms were well appointed, hers and Charles', the outer chamber spacious and bright, with a large fireplace and a comfortable dining table. Mary guided Chapuys to the fireside, where there were two comfortable armchairs, and settled across from him, taking a moment to adjust her skirts and delight in the soft feel of the velvet under her fingers. She had missed rich clothes - vanity or no, she had always loved beautiful clothes - and could not help but enjoy them now. Charles did not even give her an allowance, he simply gave her access to his accounts and told her to spend his money as she wished. "His Majesty was most gracious," she added, folding her hands in her lap.

In truth, her father had been peculiar more than gracious - he had stared at her as though she were some sort of strange curiosity, and had been so eager to return her to Charles' care that she had almost lost her balance when he passed her hand back to Charles.

And then she had cried in Charles' arms. Oh,  _God._ Had he not turned to kiss her as soon as he came to bed, she would not have been able to look at him for sheer embarrassment's sake.

"My lady? Are you quite well?"

She shook her head, forced a smile, and returned to the conversation - she could apologise to Charles whenever he returned, but for now, she had to perform properly as a hostess to the Ambassador. 

"Forgive me," she said, "I fear I am over-tired."

His eyebrows shot up, and she could not help but blush - she knew well what Mr. Chapuys would infer from that, and perhaps  _because_ he was not entirely wrong, she was sure she had never been so embarrassed. 

She had asked her confessor if she might have been possessed, because she was sure that her lust was unnatural - surely no woman went so willingly to the marriage bed? Mary did not think that she and Charles had spent a night apart since their wedding, excepting those night while he was at court or she turned him from her bed because of her anger at his so easily voting for this blasted Act of Succession, and it had not been solely in pursuit of a child, or at least, it had not been thus far for her. She did not think that it had been solely duty for Charles, either, not when he... Not with the way he touched and held her, not with the way he  _kissed_ her, or looked at her (particularly when he guided her to kneel over him and- no, she ought not think of such things at all, and especially not when a man so close to her mother, who had been so kind to her, was sitting before her, asking after her health).

"Lord Brandon is treating you well?"

"He is the most attentive of husbands," she said, "and a good man - I believe that very sincerely, Excellency."

She was surprised to find that she truly did believe it - she had been so apprehensive before the wedding, and then so consumed with the adjustment of becoming Lady Suffolk and having a permanent bedmate, that she had not given much more thought to her husband than she had when she was only his ward. 

He was also a philanderer - she had it from her maids that while he had been at court without her, he had spent the night with two different women - and had far too great a fondness for spending money, in Mary's opinion. He had plenty to spend, of course, she knew that well enough from seeing the account books at Westhorpe, but even so, he was generous to the point of folly with his retainers. He was also uncouth, and cursed more than any good Christian man should, and...

And he would never defy her father. No matter what the King asked of him, he would do it, she knew that for a certainty. It was wrong, just as these Acts her father wished Parliament to enact were wrong, but Charles would support him in anything and everything, no matter that he disliked the harlot more deeply than Mary would ever have suspected prior to their marriage, and the sudden, sometimes unnerving honesty he had trusted her with.

Honesty or no, the fact that he would go to any lengths to maintain his relationship with her father frightened her. What if she birthed a son and her father took it as an insult from God? After the way he had defied the ruling of the Curia, she did not doubt that he would do so, if it satisfied his own vanity and pride, and it would surely wound his pride if she gave Charles a son before the harlot birthed a prince.

It would give her mother such hope, though. She knew in her heart that it would prove her mother's conviction that she, Mary, ought to be Queen of England in her own right to be true, at least to her mother's satisfaction, and for that reason as well as for Charles' sake she hoped that the babe she suspected she carried in her womb even now was a boy. 

She wondered if Charles had any suspicions, yet - she was not sure enough to risk telling him, not when she had only missed two courses. Her monthlies had always been irregular, and painful, and she had never minded much missing them before, but she had not been sharing her bed with a man so enthusiastic about carrying out his husbandly duties before. It was terrifying and wonderful to think that God might already have blessed them with a child - terrifying, for fear of her father, for fear that she would prove to have inherited her mother's difficulties in childbearing, for fear that she might die in childbed as her grandmother had, and wonderful, because the thought of holding her own child in her arms left her dizzy with happiness and hope.

"He and I get along quite well," she added, for Chapuys' benefit. "I am truly grateful to my father for his choice of husband for me."

"At least he is not the Lady Anne's brother," Chapuys said. "There was some rumour that George Boleyn sought your hand, or that his father did on his behalf, and Lord Suffolk is a welcome alternative indeed."

Mary merely nodded in agreement, unable to form words for the horror she felt at the thought of being bound to the bitch's brother, and cast about for something to distract herself-

"Wine, Excellency?" she offered, surging to her feet to fetch the wine and two cups from the sideboard. "It is French, a gift from the King."

And a slight, too - Spanish wine would have been more appropriate, and better, but all things Spanish were not in favour at court just now, and Mary supposed that that included her, among all else.

"Tell me, Excellency," she said, "have you spoken with my mother since last we met? Have you any news of her?"

"I am afraid, Your Grace, that what news I have is not good," he admitted, accepting a cup from her and retaking his seat when she sat. "She fares ill indeed - her household is much reduced, and her health is failing. I fear she is not long for this world."

Mary had known for some time that her mother would not survive her father - her father, who was the very picture of health, and who was the centre of the court and thereby the world for most of England. Even so, to think that she might lose her mother so soon...

"If I may speak freely, Your Grace," the Ambassador said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "there are some who feel that it might be... Expedient to see your marriage set aside. It is a good thing that Lord Suffolk treats you well, but he is not a worthy husband for the rightful heir to the English throne."

While that was true - had Mary been accorded the honours that were her right, she would never have wed Charles. She would have married a son of the French king, or perhaps a son or cousin of the Emperor's, and she would have remained  _Princess_ Mary - she did not see how it would help. Even if she were married to a prince, her father was still enacting these Acts of Parliament, and she was still legally a bastard in England. So many people had willingly taken this Oath of her father's - indeed, Charles had urged her to sign it, for her own sake as well as for his and that of his children - that she doubted they would support her in any future attempt to claim her throne, particularly if the harlot bore a son.

"What prince would marry a bastard?" she pointed out as evenly as she could. "You forget, Excellency, that even if I did somehow obtain an annulment - without my husband's consent, at that - I would be once more at my father's mercy. I am not free to wed as I would, Ambassador, and I dare say that my husband is a finer man than any other my father might sell me off to!"

"I meant no offence to Lord Suffolk," Chapuys said, surprised by her vehemence in defending her marriage - Mary could not deny that she was surprised, too, for she had been so opposed to the marriage before, but now saw its value. Charles  _did_ treat her well, and respectfully, and there  _were_ many others who would happily marry the King's daughter, bastard or not, and would treat her unkindly for the inherent threat she posed to the Boleyn witch and her children. "I meant only that there are many men who would gladly wed you, and give you the honours you deserve!"

"I am less sure of that than you are," she said. No one had come to her defence when her father named her a bastard - true, they had denounced the harlot for the concubine she was, and little Elizabeth as a bastard, but had they sent her aid? Had they sent money to help her support her household or her mother's while she was in virtual exile at Ludlow? 

No, the only men who had come to her or her mother's aid, these past long years, had been Thomas More and her husband, and the Ambassador himself - there had been no Kings or Princes, no material aid from her cousin the Emperor. Even his taking the Holy Father himself hostage had not halted Mary's father in his path, not truly, but Charles - under guidance from Sir Thomas More, she knew, but he had still done it, had still taken her into his home at risk of her father's displeasure.

"I will remain married to my lord the Duke of Suffolk," she said firmly, clasping her hands tight around her cup. She was safe as Duchess of Suffolk - if she were to once more become Lady Mary Tudor, even as the betrothed of a prince, her position would be impossibly precarious, if only because to annul her marriage to Charles without his consent would surely make an enemy of him. "He is a good man, and a good husband. I am... Satisfied."

 

* * *

 

 

 _A good man._ So that was what Mary thought of him, was it? Charles had not known, for she was so damnably careful and controlled so often. The only time he felt he saw her truly was when she lost her temper with him, as she had over the Act of Succession. 

God in Heaven, he hadn't even told her of the Act of Supremacy yet - doubtless she had heard some gossip about it since their arrival, but likely not in any great detail. She'd have lost her mind to have heard such a thing in open court!

"Excellency," he said, pushing fully into the room, disrupting their conversation. "I trust my lady has kept you entertained?"

"Her Grace has been a perfect hostess," Chapuys assured him, rising slower than was polite, and smiling less than he ought have. "I have been made most welcome."

"I am glad," Charles said lightly, moving to take Mary's arm. "You are a great friend of my mother-in-law's, after all. You are always welcome here."

Mary was tense beside him, clutching tight to his arm, and her smile was strained as they bade the Ambassador farewell. She was usually more gracious than that, but it had been a difficult conversation, from what little Charles had overheard.

"How is my father?" she asked as soon as they were alone, sitting once more by the fire, wrapping her hands tight around her cup. "He seemed in good spirits yesterday?"

"He is overjoyed," Charles said, pouring a cup of wine for himself, and topping Mary's up as well before sitting down. "It would seem that the Queen is once more with child."

Mary's face was as white as the spilled wine spreading across the rug before the fire was red.

"She- she is to have another child?"

"She told the King so yesterday," Charles said, lifting Mary's cup from the floor and passing her his own. "She is not far along, so he would rather the whole of court not be told, but he wished for you to know. He hopes that you will welcome your new brother, and that you will, tonight at dinner, honour the Queen."

"But- but she is barely recovered from having Elizabeth! How can she  _possibly_ be with child again so soon?"

"Some women recover more quickly than others," Charles said uneasily, thinking of the child Margaret had lost close after having Edward, a girl born far too soon that Margaret had called Eleanor. Charles had never seen such a tiny creature, and Margaret had been nigh inconsolable for months afterwards - indeed, he had always wondered if her only true consolation had been Frances, born just less than three years later. "There is a great passion between her and the King, so perhaps it is not so surprising."

Mary still looked distraught. She was always pale, but this was extreme, even for her. She was corpse-white, and rigid with... Shock? He couldn't tell, but it was terrible to behold.

"Mary," he said gently, stepping over the spreading pool of spilled wine to kneel before her. "Mary, look at me. Look at me, my lady."

He took the cup from her hands, startled to find that she was shaking - she looked so still, but no, her fingers trembled so hard he had to grip them in his own to stop it.

"It matters not if she bears a son," he said. "You are safe now regardless - you are my wife, and under my protection, and I will see you come to no harm."

"That is well and good, my lord," Mary said, her voice sharp and high. "But if my father has a son that he considers to be legitimate, what reason has he to hold me in any regard? What reason has he to care if I were to be killed off? If he has a legitimate son, he will not care at all if the Boleyns murder me!"

"Of course he will," Charles tried, wishing to reassure her of her safety - a difficult thing to do, since she had now lived most of her life with an axe hanging over her head. "No harm will come to you, Mary, I swear it to you now. You are  _safe._ "

She surprised him by leaning forward, leaning into his arms, and he guided her down to kneel in front of him, so she could tuck herself against his chest.

"I want to go home to Westhorpe," she whispered, thin fingers clutching tight to his jerkin. "Please, Charles, I just want to leave court, as soon as I am able. I will  _never_ be safe here, Charles, please, I just want to be  _gone."_

"You will be," he assured her, helping her to her feet. "A day or two, no more, I promise - then I will speak with your father. We can tell him that you are ill, that you do not want to risk the Queen's child-"

"Or," she said, her voice very small, her fingers still tight in his jerkin, "we could tell him that I am with child."

 

* * *

 

 

Mary felt so  _plain_ beside that woman.

Charles was a more handsome man than her father - the King might be better dressed, but Mary's husband was the best looking man in just about any room - but the  _Queen_ was so striking and fashionable a woman that it was difficult for Mary to feel anything but dowdy beside her, even with the beautiful gowns Charles had commissioned for her.

She was wearing the deep blue one the maid had dressed her in the morning after their wedding to this  _festive_ dinner, with Charles in a similar shade, if a little brighter. It was a beautiful gown, exquisitely made and perfectly suited to Mary's colouring, but it was nothing at all next to the rich plum satin the  _Queen_ was wearing.

"We hardly had a moment to speak yesterday, sweetheart," her father said, taking her by the hand and guiding her to the table, obviously pleased by the level of submission she had shown before the harlot. "Tell me, how are you liking Westhorpe? It is a fine house, is it not?"

"Very fine indeed, Your Majesty," she agreed, dredging up a sincere smile from some unknown depth. "I only hope to live up to such a fine home."

"How could you not?" the King laughed, handing her down into her seat, leaving Charles to do the same for the bitch. "You are my daughter, after all - you are capable of anything!"

They exchanged little but pleasantries while they waited on the food to be served. Mary even found it in herself to congratulate that woman on being with child again, that joyous fear fluttering in her belly at the thought of sharing her own news with her father. Charles caught her eye then, his gaze sharp, and she was glad that he was close enough for her to take his hand. She felt safer with his hand in hers, especially sitting right across from her father's mistress, seeing her mother's jewels glinting at that woman's throat. 

"I miss Westhorpe already," Mary said, in response to some question of her father's. "I would return there soon, if Your Majesty would permit it - it seems neglectful for us to leave it without a steward, and Edward and Lady Willoughby need at least one of their guardians."

Charles' grip on her hand tightened, and she breathed deep, glad of the distraction of the plates being changed between courses. It was difficult, so terribly hard, to even consider putting the chance of a child at risk by letting the Boleyns know about it.

"And," she said, smiling at her father's groom, the tall one with the heavy beard, as he set a plate of sweetmeats between her and Charles, "I would rather be away from the hustle and bustle of court while with child."

Charles had gone white and tense when Mary confided her condition in him, but that had been caused by the same fear that was now setting Mary's teeth on edge. 

And the Queen's, it seemed. Her face was frozen, sharp and horrified, and then, suddenly, she spluttered out a laugh.

"With child?" she said, as though it were a wild impossibility. "So soon into your marriage? You are blessed indeed if that is truly the case, Your Grace."

Mary cared about that woman's opinion only so far as it might influence her father's, but knew better than to openly antagonise her in the King's presence. 

"You are kind to say so, Your Majesty," she said evenly, holding tight to Charles' hand. He was leaning forward, leaning toward her as though prepared to leap bodily to her defence, but eased a little when she pressed her hand to her belly. It was yet flat - she was not even two months along, after all - but the gesture was enough to sooth her husband just a little. "We are thankful to God for such a gift."

"So I am to be a father and a grandfather all at once," the King said, and Mary could not tell if he was pleased or not by this news. 

She prayed that he was not  _too_ displeased - he so disliked anything that reminded him that he was not so young as he had been when he took the throne, and what more powerful a reminder was there in the world than to present him with a  _grandchild?_

"Tell me, sweetheart," the King said, "what benefit is there in remaining isolated at Westhorpe, rather than here, where there are the finest physicians in the country?"

"If I may, Your Majesty," Charles said, his voice uncharacteristically cautious, "my lady is unused to the crowds at court, after so long away - she is anxious, I think, which is not ideal while with child."

"No," the King agreed, "no, it is not - but surely the physicians here at court are better suited to see to your care than whatever apothecary you have in the countryside, sweetheart?"

"Your Majesty is kind to be so concerned," Mary said carefully, "but given my lady mother's history in such matters, I would prefer to take as few risks as possible."

"You are very sensible, Lady Suffolk," the Queen said. "After all, my love, were you not the first to encourage my seclusion while I carried Elizabeth?"

Mary watched her father, saw the indecision in his eyes, and dared to reach over and take his hand.

"The better my health, Your Majesty," she said gently, "the better my chances of delivering you a healthy grandson."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary did not know quite what to think when one of the maids shook her awake sometime after midnight, when the sky was still rich and dark but just blue, like the first gown she had worn as Lady Brandon.

Mary did not know quite what to think when one of the maids shook her awake sometime after midnight, when the sky was still rich and dark but just blue, like the first gown she had worn as Lady Brandon. 

She was given just long enough to belt a robe around herself, a heavy thing of thick wool, before being presented to Charles and Sir Anthony in Charles' study. Both were still in riding clothes, half-capes dusty over leathers and faces pale and tired.

"My lady," Charles said, crossing the room to take her hands, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her to a chair. "You are well?"

"I was, until you had me brought from my bed in the middle of the night," she said. "What is it, my lord? Is it my father?"

"No, my lady," Charles said. "Not your father, but the Queen. I am afraid that she has lost the child."

 

* * *

 

She knew well enough the dangers a woman could face in the birthing bed - her father's mother had died there, and her own mother had suffered more grief there than anywhere else, save perhaps in the Legatine court. How could Mary not fear it, especially given how horrid her monthly bleeding had always been. One of her maids at Ludlow had assured her that that foretold no great difficulty in childbearing, but Lady Salisbury had had a doctor examine Mary all the same, and he had made her swear to always be painfully careful if she was to find herself with child.  
  
And she had been. She had been so, so careful, never straining herself and always eating precisely what the doctor Charles had found for her prescribed, and resting most of the time in the outer chamber of her rooms, with Cathy and a pleased but subdued Edward for company.

Charles, too, when he was home. Often, he helped her to his study, and she read in a chair by the fire while he managed their estates. She missed him so when he was gone, for that and for the easy manner he had with the servants, and how easily he could quiet Edward when the poor boy grew bored, and the warmth of him beside her at night. She slept better when he was near, knowing as she did that he would keep her safe from any who might her or her baby, and feeling silly for it.

The weight of her belly was a comfort in itself, but nothing was as comforting as the tremor and thud of her baby moving within her. So long as the child moved, it lived, and the idea of losing this child, as that woman had lost her father's child.

Mary felt a queer... Sympathy, almost. Now that she had a child of her own moving under her heart, she could only imagine how painful it had been for her mother all those times, for the Boleyn woman now. It hurt more than Mary could bear to even  _consider_ such a loss.

She had never expected to feel anything but hatred for the woman who had stolen her father and revealed the worst in him, but she did, and it confused her and frightened her more than she understood.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have been very quiet, my lady,” Charles said, tugging the door that connected their rooms closed behind him the night after his return, ready for bed. “I would have thought you would be relieved.”

“How could I be?” Mary said, wrapping her arms tight around the swell of her belly. “I thought that I would be happy to know that woman had lost a child, but I am not. I feel…”

Mary wasn’t sure how she felt, truth be told. Sick was the closest she could fathom, but she did not think that Charles would understand that.

“What if our child dies?” she asked, wrapping her arms tighter around her belly. “What if I have my mother’s luck?”

Charles’ face was calm, but Mary knew him better than that. She could see the tension that leached his movements of his usual easy grace as he crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed, just as plainly as she could see that he was naked under his robe. Even a few weeks previously, she would have assumed he wished to lie with her, but now she knew he just liked the closeness and intimacy of sharing a bed with her, especially with her with child.

“Then we will mourn our child,” he said gently, taking her hands. “My lady, you are- you are much younger than your mother, and many of the stresses placed on her are not burdening your shoulders.”

“But-”

“No,” he cut her off, squeezing her hands. “No, sweetheart, do not worry, I will not blame you if it comes to it. Margaret lost a child, did you know that? Between Edward and Frances. A daughter.”

The idea of Mary’s aunt losing a child, of fierce, proud, strong Margaret Tudor doing something so human, so weak as losing a child, was strangely reassuring. And…

If she and Charles had had Frances after losing their first daughter, then perhaps he would not blame her if she lost this child. Perhaps he would give her a second chance.

 

* * *

 

Mary remained pale and quiet right throughout Charles' stay at Westhorpe, cradling her belly all of the time, fidgeting as though distracted even at meals, even in her sleep.

"She's afraid," Tony said baldly, shrugging as though it were to be expected. "I would be, if I were her. The Boleyns aren't like to take it well if she gives you a living child, boy or girl, not after the Queen losing a son, Charles. You know that as well as I do."

The King was not like to take it well, never mind the Boleyns, and that worried Charles more, but he knew Tony meant to ease his worries some - Tony knew Henry near as well as Charles did, after all.

"She seems healthy enough," Tony added, clapping Charles on the shoulder with a smile. "And I don't think I've ever seen a woman so careful of her belly."

"She does seem well, doesn't she? Aside from being upset over all this... Mess."

He had no other way to describe it - it was a mess, and Mary was upset over it, for reasons Charles did not fully understand. True enough, she had reason to fear the Boleyns, and her father, but the doctors professed her to be in the finest of health, and the midwife from the village had confided in them that she suspected Mary to be carrying a girl, which meant less chance of their earning Henry's ire simply for having a child.

Charles did not much mind either way, although he could not deny that he would like another son, a boy to name for his father, perhaps. Edward would like a brother, too, Charles knew, to play with and be close to as he could not Frances, and Mary...

Charles did not know what Mary wanted. The child to be born alive, and strong, and healthy, but beyond that? He had no notion.


	4. Chapter 4

"I am afraid," Mary said quietly. "There are so many things to be afraid of, but I feel weak for it all the same. I ought to have more faith in You, and Your goodness."

The crucifix above her was old, mahogany and brass, a gift to her lady mother from her sister, Isabella of Portugal, upon her wedding to Mary's uncle, long-dead Prince Arthur. Mary had had it since she was a child, one of the first heirlooms her mother had given to her, and it was one of her most prized possessions. 

She could still remember the day her mother had entrusted it to her, still tied about the base with ribbons in the Trastamara colours, before Mary had changed them for Tudor.

It did not react to her prayers. It never had, not even while she had prayed and prayed for her father to abide by Cardinal Wolsey's guidance, or later, Cardinal Campeggio and Bishop Fisher.

The babe in her belly did, though, kicking hard against her already sore ribs, and she almost laughed in the midst of her devotions. The babe rarely stopped kicking and moving, a good sign - Mary knew that even without her midwife telling her so, and it gave her so much hope that this would all go well. If her babe was strong enough to keep her awake all night, strong enough to kick so hard that Cathy insisted she could see little feet through the stretched-thin skin of Mary's belly, then her baby was strong enough to be born alive, and to  _live._

That was all she wanted. For God to give let her keep her child, when He had taken so much else away from her.

"You are the Almighty," she said, gripping so hard to her rosary that her fingers ached, that she knew she would have the delicate patterns engraved on the beads pressed into her palms, "and I should have faith in You, but I am still afraid."

"That is only human, sister."

She turned, almost overbalancing thanks to the weight of her belly, and truly did begin to laugh.

"Welcome once more to Westhorpe, little brother," she said, gladly accepting Hal's outstretched hands. He guided her carefully to her feet, and waited patiently while she recovered her balance. It always took a long moment, with the weight of the baby bowing her back and leaving her unsettled, but Hal was patient - he always seemed to be patient, waiting quietly for her to find words, waiting for their father's attention, waiting for the respect that was his due as Duke of Richmond and Somerset but which was so often denied him for his being Fitzroy, rather than Tudor. "I was not sure that you would wish to come-"

"But of course I would," Hal rushed to promise her, offering her his arm with a smile. "I told you, Mary, you can always count on my support in all things. I meant my promises."

Hal, Mary suspected, would champion her claim to the throne over that of their little sister - but she could never ask that of him. To make him choose between her and their father would be unspeakably cruel, and Hal had been nothing but perfectly lovely to her.

"I know, Hal," she assured him. "But all the same, asking you to dance attendance on me while I am in my confinement - it is hardly what you envisioned when you promised to aid me in any way you could."

She had not known to who else she was to turn - Charles was at court, and would be there until she was delivered, on her father's insistence. She saw the Queen's hand in that, in depriving Mary of her greatest support during this time which was so difficult, and it made her regret any pity or sympathy she had felt for the Boleyn woman after her misfortune in January.

It was July, now, almost August, and what little good will she had gathered up towards the Queen had faded all in a rush when Charles had written to her, a long letter full of frustration and a longing to be home, letters scratched deep into the paper and blotted all over - a letter written in anger, clearly. He had been unusually wordy, unusually open in a letter that they both  _knew_ would be read by others, others who were not their friends, but Mary could not blame him.

Her father was keeping Charles at court just as she was due to bear their first child. Of  _course_ Charles was angry.  _Mary_ was angry, angry with her father as was forbidden by God's holy word, angry with the harlot, and sometimes, in her darkest heart, angry with God himself for giving her this life, when she ought to have had another.

"It is a long walk from your rooms to this chapel," Hal said, looking concerned now. "Are you sure that you ought to take your devotions here? Surely it would be simpler to place a crucifix and perhaps a statue of the Blessed Virgin in your own chambers - I would be happy to bring anything you might require-"

She could not help but laugh, if only because Hal was so desperate to please her. Edward and Cathy were the same, fidgeting and fussing at her every move, and it was driving her half to distraction. 

Charles, if he were here, would not be so desperate to please. Charles, if he were here, would tease her, and would encourage her to follow the midwife's every word of advice.

Mary missed him more than she liked - it was refreshing to have someone shoulder her burdens, who wished to see her happy simply for happiness' sake. It was nice.

And for all his awful reputation, Charles was remarkably discreet in his philandering - she knew that he had bedded half the maids of their staff, but he remained clear of her personal household, restraining himself from dealing her insult by taking the women who helped her dress in the mornings for lovers. He never flaunted his women, never spoke of them, never came to her bed smelling of them...

She could not but compare him favourably to her father, who had flaunted the harlot as a consort before her mother, who had gone so far as to _father a child_ on one of her mother's ladies.

Not that Mary minded that, not now - had her father not been a poor husband, she would not have Hal. Had she not had Hal, she would have been forced to bear Edward and Cathy's overbearing attentions without an ally.

And she would have been less a friend.

 

* * *

 

Court was tense, or perhaps that was Charles himself - he could not be certain. What last information he had received from Westhorpe had come in the form of a letter from Edward informing him of the Duke of Richmond's arrival, and since then, nothing.

The King had been remarkably quiet on the subject of Mary these past days, since the arrival of that letter. The Queen, too, had hardly even looked at Charles, but Lord Wiltshire had made up for  _that._ He had taken every opportunity to make sure Charles' fears that the silence from Westhorpe meant that Mary had inherited her mother's luck in childbed - or worse, her grandmother the Queen's. The idea of losing  _another_ wife, this one so young, so new, so  _unknown,_ sickened him, and Wiltshire and all the others knew it.

Privy council meetings were even more a test than before, now that Wiltshire was in such foul humour with him - Ormonde and Norfolk, at least, left him more or less alone. Wiltshire was still so angry at the Queen's miscarriage, so afraid of all that Mary's child represented, that he had set himself as wholly against Charles as was possible.

If this child of Mary's,  _Charles'_ child, was a boy, after all, it would be a relatively simple matter for the King to set aside the Boleyn woman, claim his marriage to Mary's mother as legitimate once more, and name the boy as his heir. A small thing, after breaking from Rome as he had. 

Charles would not deny that the idea of being father to a King was enticing - he would never voice such a desire, particularly not within Henry's hearing, but the prospect  _was_ intoxicating. Charles appreciated power, had developed a taste for it over the course of his life in proximity to the House of Tudor, and knew that if he were ever to find himself in such a position, he would cling to what power he had as his son's regent as fiercely as Margaret Beaufort had as My Lady the King's Mother.

But he would never say such a thing aloud, even if he  _did_ desire another son, and not solely for any claim such a boy might have to the throne - Edward was as healthy a lad as existed in England, but Margaret had been the strongest woman in all of Christendom, and she had died such a horrible, painful death, so  _young._

Was it greedy of Charles, to want two legitimate sons when Henry had none? He had young Richmond, of course, but Richmond was a bastard, and only boy, besides, Edward's age or so, and as like as any other youth to die - in war, in a brawl, of a fever, it mattered not. Sons died, and men were left without heirs. 

It was not greed to wish for security, surely?

"You're a lucky man," Tony said, taking Charles' bishop. "I can't imagine anyone else surviving the enmity of the Queen's family for this long, especially not a man aligned with the old Queen."

"I'm not aligned with the old Queen," Charles said firmly, feeling even guiltier now for pondering the possibility of his son as King of England - that was treason, and he was not so stupid as to believe that he would survive charges thereof a second time. "My wife and I are both in support of the King's marriage to Queen Anne, as you well know."

"I'm sure," was all Tony had for a reply, which was worrying - if Tony, who had been Charles' staunchest ally in all this mess, felt that he was turning traitor, then surely it would be no great thing for the King to believe the same?

 

* * *

 

Hal and Edward were out riding when the first pangs hit Mary.

The King had forbidden her even Lady Salisbury's company for this, so it was just her and Cathy, and the midwives who were waiting with her lady's maid in the next room. Cathy is so dear to Mary, and the midwives are capable women, with serious eyes and kind smiles, but Mary wishes for the comfort of Lady Salisbury's chiding and clucking almost as fiercely as she wishes for her mother.

She had thought - foolishly, she knew, because she ought to have known better, she truly ought to - that her father might relent in his cruelty, in the face of her fears. And such fears! Difficulty in childbed, even unto death, was present in both sides of Mary's lineage, and surely,  _surely_ her father knew of the child Charles lost with Aunt Margaret, that Charles was not without ill luck in such matters as these!

But no. Still she was forbidden so much as a letter to her mother, still she was forbidden even the slightest hope of a  _visit_ , and it hurt so deeply that he had so little regard for her that she could hardly stand to even think of it.

And so, only Cathy was present when Mary's womb moved the first time, when Mary gasped for the discomfort of it - not yet pain, but the echo of pain yet to come - and her hands flew to her belly. 

Cathy ran for the midwives without being asked, and needed their reassurance more than Mary herself did, it seemed.

"I am well enough," Mary said firmly, fidgeting at her shift - even the softest materials seemed to itch at her breasts. "You need not fuss quite so much, Cathy, the midwives are certain-"

The second round of pangs hurt a great deal more than the first, and worried Mary a little. She did not show it, though, because she didn't think she could stand much more of Cathy's fussing.

"Send for Edward and Hal," she said as a third round of pains curled around her belly. "Hal will- he'll- my brother will ride to London and fetch Charles home,  _oh!"_

The third round of pains lasted much longer than the first two, leaving Mary clutching at the bedclothes in pain and Cathy fluttering at the bedside. The midwives clucked approvingly, counting and chattering in a way that set Mary's already gritted teeth on edge.

"You ought to have something for the pain," Cathy fretted, "oh, oh Mary, does it hurt terribly much?"

"Fetch Hal and Edward home," Mary said, more sharply than she had ever spoken to Cathy. "Send Hal for London."

"Mary, Lord Richmond is a guest-"

 _"And my brother,"_ Mary snapped. "Send for him, Catherine! I am the lady of this house, and you  _will_ honour me!"

 

* * *

 

Edward offered to ride to London in Hal's place - desperate to see his father, Mary knew, to scrape even just the ride from Whitehall home to Westhorpe alone with Charles, and terrified of being present while she screamed her way to bringing his new sibling into the world - and insisted that Hal would be better company for Cathy, better comfort for Mary.

The only comfort Mary presently knew was the hot stones the midwives wrapped in linens and pressed into her lower back to ease the cramping muscles, and Hal would be of no use whatsoever, since the closest he was allowed was the door to her reception chamber, out in the hallway. 

"No," Mary said, fearing that once more she would have to throw her rank about as her father so often did. "No, Hal must go, Edward. He is the stronger rider, his horse the quicker-"

The midwives took charge as soon as Mary's voice cut away to nothing. She was glad of it, because the pain was so severe that she was sure she would die, and by the time it was finished, even Cathy was gone. 

"Now then," said the elder of the two women, a stout woman with a tight bun of steely-grey hair and startlingly blue eyes. "Can't be delivering a babe with young Lady Catherine wittering about like the fool she isn't, yer Grace, can we? And you're near enough that we'll be delivering soon, I dare say."

"But- but it's hardly been any time at all!" Mary cried, horrified - she was sure that she had only had her first pains an hour or two ago, and surely such a quick progression was a bad thing?

"Milady," the other woman said, her dark eyes kindly and her hands soft and worn, "you've been abed for a full day - your pains started around the tenth hour this morning, and it's near the same again after noon, now."

"But..." 

When Mary looked out the window, over the women's shoulders, the sky was the same deep blue as the first gown she had worn as Lady Brandon, and as Charles' eyes had been when he bid her farewell with his hands resting on the swell of her belly.

Then another pain took her, and she had no more time for such concerns.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one - I couldn't bear to leave you all hanging like that for long ;)

Charles did not wait for Richmond when they reached Westhorpe - Mary's brother was half-dead from the ride to London and back, but Charles had greater concerns than another man's aching muscles, or the sweat shining on his own horse's neck.

"Where is the Duchess?" he called, bolting up the stairs as fast as he could, taking them three at a time in his haste - Mary would chide him for not knocking the muck off his boots, for not even bothering to remove his outermost layers, but perhaps she might not mean it too sincerely, given the cause of his haste. "And the child, where is the child?"

"If it please Your Grace," a stout, grey-haired woman said, planting herself in front of him just as he reached the top of the stairs, "you might wish to quiet yourself a little - both Her Grace and the child are well, safely through the birth, but both are also  _sleeping,_ my lord, and gravely in need of their rest."

The relief near knocked his legs from under him, to know that both Mary and the babe were well - he had been so sure, during those last, paranoid days cooped up at court with an endless parade of Boleyns and Howards, that some malady would befall either one or the other, and had been twice as certain when young Richmond had shouted his way past the guards and gentlemen of the chamber to get to Charles, who had been at a meeting of the privy council when his brother-in-law arrived at Whitehall.

"A boy or a girl?" he asked, on the verge of laughter his relief was so strong - God Almighty, to imagine that he might have lost Mary so soon, with them not even a year wed! It was unthinkable, it truly was, so much so that he had almost forgotten to ask the sex of the child. 

"A girl, my lord," said the woman, who must have been one of Mary's midwives. "As fine a lass as ever I've seen delivered, Your Grace, with what looks to be your own colouring."

"Another daughter, my lord," Richmond said cheerfully, having finally caught him up. "I am sure that Mary will be terribly pleased to see that she has birthed a healthy child, son or daughter."

"I am sure," Charles agreed, wondering if having birthed a daughter might cause Mary more anxiety than she would ever admit - he knew well how much she wished to give him a son, for all that she had never spoken of it outright, likely as much for fear of him treating her as ill as her father had her mother than anything else - but pleased all the same. He loved Frances as well as he did Edward, and found it easier to spoil and indulge her without fear of ruining her, as he worried indulging Edward might.

"I could wake the Duchess, if you'd like, my lord," the midwife said, sounding uncertain all of a sudden. "She needs her rest, it's true, but I'm sure she'd rather we let her know of your arrival, Your Grace."

"I will go to her myself," he said, clapping Richmond on the shoulder with a smile. "My lord, if you'd be so good as to alert my son and my ward of our return, I will attend on my lady wife."

"Of course, my lord," Richmond said, his smile never faltering a moment. "Give my sister my love, if you would - I feel that I neglected her, even though riding for you was done on her request. Too many have neglected her, these past years."

Charles was struck for the first time by the realisation that, perhaps, Richmond's affection for Mary was as wholesome and genuine as the love Edward bore Frances, or Henry had once borne Margaret, and he felt some worry he had not realised he was carrying ease.  _Good,_ he thought.  _Good, let her have someone who loves her without condition, who can stand by her side as a friend and companion._

He watched Richmond go, struck also by the similarity to Henry in the lad's gait and bearing, and then turned back to the midwife, who was smiling nervously.

"You are excused, goodwoman," he said, waving her away. "You have my thanks, for the service you have given my lady."

She curtsied away with a murmured "Your Grace," and Charles turned then for Mary's rooms. 

 

* * *

 

 

Mary woke slowly, confused by how bright her bedchamber seemed - the midwives had kept her in shade, urging her to sleep and rest as much as possible, but the warmth of the sun on her face was most welcome.

"My lady."

She blinked awake, her eyes feeling filmy and weak after so long in the dusk, and almost did not believe her senses. But true enough, Charles was sitting on the edge of her bed, still travelworn and spattered all over with muck and dust, a smile on his face as warm as the hand around hers. 

"My lord," she said, trying to push herself up in the bed, desperately aware of the mess of her hair and the unlaced bodice of her nightgown. "I did not- I hadn't expected you so soon."

"Your brother nearly killed his horse to get to me," Charles said, shaking his head in obvious amusement. "And we near killed two more to get here as quick as we could. You are well, Mary?"

She was sore all over, in truth, and while the midwives had assured her that the heavy bleeding was normal, it was still frightening, especially since Mary was so unused to it. But that was not what Charles would want to hear.

"I am well enough," she assured him, smiling a little. "Have you seen...?"

"I'm told she's still sleeping," he said, "and that I ought to leave her be for now. Your lady tells me that our daughter has my hair."

"She looks nothing like me, I don't think," Mary admits, wondering if she ought to be ashamed of the disappointment she had felt to behold her daughter and see nothing of her own mother in that tiny face. "Edward swears that she is the very image of her older sister, though."

He kept swearing it, over and over, every single time he came to see the babe - that she looked like Frances, that she looked like Charles. The midwives, the maids, Cathy too, all insisted that the babe was all Charles, all Brandon, and not at all Tudor.

Mary was sad for it, but not so much that she regretted anything about her daughter - that the child was living was cause enough for celebration, and for her to be so healthy, too, was more than Mary could have hoped. 

"Have you named her?"

"I- no, my lord," Mary said, surprised. "She is but two days old, and I... Well, I rather thought you might wish to name her."

Charles shrugged a little, looking bashful. 

"I would have wished to call her Elizabeth, for my mother," he admitted. "But I don't imagine you'd like that, with her being so close in age to your sister. Otherwise, I have no real preferences. I am sure that you will choose a fitting name."

"I would have liked Elizabeth as well," Mary confessed. "For my grandmothers, both of them - Isabella is a form of Elizabeth, after all, but... No. I could not, not with that  _woman's_ child bearing my grandmother's name already."

"Isabella, then?"

"Too Spanish," Mary pointed out ruefully. "And therefore too likely to anger or upset my father. I cannot risk such a thing, not now. Not yet."

"There is always Isobel," Charles offered. "More English, but close to the name you like."

Mary eyed him carefully, wondering why he was so eager to please her, and wondered if it was because she had delivered a living child. If that was so, she dreaded to think how he might have reacted had something gone wrong with the birth - would he have raged, as she knew her father had? Would he have blamed her for the path God chose?

"Isobel Brandon," Mary said, sounding it out, wary of the smile that curled Charles' full mouth. "I like it, I think."

 


	6. Chapter 6

Charles had hoped to do this without the Boleyn woman present, but of course that was impossible. Henry was still clinging to the legitimacy of their marriage, and could not be seen to partake of official duties without her at his side.

Charles had never imagined that telling Henry about a new daughter would be an  _ official duty,  _ but they had come a very long way from the days when Henry was Harry of York, no matter how difficult that might sometimes have been to accept.

“Isobel, you say,” Henry said. “Like  _ Isabella. _ ”

“Like  _ Elizabeth,  _ Your Majesty,” Charles said. “My lady wished to honour both her grandmothers, and my mother as well.”

“With a Spanish-sounding name,” the Queen said, folding her thin hands together in her lap. She was not yet again with child, Charles had heard, despite it being almost nine months since she had lost her second child, and looked very aware that tongues were wagging - he had never seen her so agitated before. “Curious, Lord Suffolk, wouldn’t you agree?”

“My lady’s mother  _ is _ Spanish, Majesty,” Charles pointed out evenly, gripping his hands tight together behind his back. “Not so curious, really, I don’t think.”

“Most would have assumed that your lady wife would have wished to honour her  _ mother,  _ I imagine,” the Queen pressed. “Rather than two grandmothers she never knew.”

“Or her Queen, perhaps,” Henry said, and Charles wondered if a man could die of despair - surely Henry would not take issue with the name of his first grandchild? Surely he would not find some insult in Isobel’s name not being  _ Anne? _

Surely not. Surely to God he could understand why Mary would not wish for such a thing, why  _ Charles  _ would not wish for such a thing! Henry must have known that neither of them could ever have borne naming their daughter for that woman!

“My daughter has been named in honour of  _ two _ queens, Majesty,” Charles tried, hoping a touch of levity would ease that cutting burn in Henry’s eyes - to no avail.

“And I suppose,” the Queen said, one of those thin hands coming over to cover Henry’s on the arm of his throne, “that any subsequent daughters you might be blessed with will honour… Other queens?”

She knew that there would never be an Anne Brandon of Westhorpe House, Charles could see it plain on her sharp face, and knew that she took insult in it. Of course.

“If that is what my lady wishes,” Charles said through tightly gritted teeth, “then I would seek to accommodate her as best I can - but she is not stupid, Your Majesty.”

Mary would eventually wish to name a daughter for her mother, Charles was certain of it, just as certain as he was that she would likely wish for a son named for her father - Margaret had wished for a son called Henry, too, and Mary reminded him of Margaret in odd, knife-sharp ways.

“No,” Henry said. “No, she has never been stupid. She has always been too clever for her own good. Too much like her mother.”

The Queen’s mouth went thin at that, but Charles was curious. It was unlike Henry to mention Queen Katherine in anything but a fit of temper - was he softening? If he was, might he allow Mary to visit with her mother?

“Isobel Brandon,” Henry said, rolling the name around in his mouth just as Mary had, looking thoughtfully heavenward, just as Mary had. “I can imagine worse names.”

_ Margaret,  _ for example. Charles had considered it, but could not bear it either - the pain of Margaret’s loss was too fresh, the shame of how he had treated her was too consuming whenever he allowed himself to think of her. He could never name a daughter for her, particularly not a daughter who might grow to look like her, with that same red-shining brown hair and those same pale, bright eyes. 

Mary had that hair, those eyes. It was difficult enough to see them in the wife who had taken Margaret’s place without also seeing them in a child who was his, but not Margaret’s.

“She is beautiful, Henry,” Charles said quietly. “She has my hair, but when I look at her, all I see is Mary - and your mother, I think.”

Charles only remembered Queen Elizabeth a little, a vague shape with bright hair and kind eyes, and a soft, warm smile. She had visited with Henry often, when they were boys, but had wanted her visits to be between just the two of them, and so Charles and Will and Tony had been shuffled off outside to play whenever the Queen came to Hatfield, and later to York. He had seen her often enough to recognise something of her long, straight nose in his daughter, and those pale, hooded eyes, which Prince Arthur had inherited but Henry had not. 

Henry had his grandmother’s eyes. The eyes of My Lady the King’s Mother. Sharp and piercing and all too knowing. 

“Isobel,” Henry said again, smiling now. “My first grandchild.”

That smile was a victory - Mary had that same smile, when she won at cards against Catherine, or when her translations from Latin were better than Edward’s. 

“Come, Charles,” Henry said, springing up so suddenly that the Queen flinched away. “Let us celebrate my granddaughter’s birth, what do you say?”

_ My granddaughter. _ Not  _ your daughter,  _ and certainly not  _ Mary’s daughter.  _

“I say yes, Majesty,” Charles said, because what else was there to say?

 

* * *

Isobel would not stop  _ screaming. _

And Mary had not yet stopped bleeding - it was frightening still, but Cathy had insisted on retaining one of the midwives until Mary was churched, which would not be for another week or more, and the friendly-faced older woman insisted that the bleeding was normal, especially for a woman with as irregular a history of monthly bleeding as Mary’s. 

“I wonder if it would stop if you nursed Isobel yourself,” Cathy said, lounging on the end of Mary’s bed with some book or other - Cathy always had new books, and was enthusiastic about sharing them, but Mary was always wary. Cathy’s tastes sometimes ran dangerously close to blasphemous, she had noticed.

She did not say anything about it, no more than she ever commented on how readily Cathy had taken those Oaths of her father’s.

Cathy’s ability to continue reading and chattering even while Isobel wailed her soul out never failed to confound Mary, because when Isobel cried, Mary’s heart broke.

“It is not-”

“The done thing,” Cathy said, “for royalty - but you are not Princess Mary now, remember. You are Lady Suffolk, and can do as you wish, provided Lord Suffolk does not prevent it.”

Mary could not imagine Charles taking any particular issue with her nursing Isobel, particularly not if nursing caused the bleeding to stop so that they could resume their marital duties.

She blushed just to think of it, particularly with Cathy on the bed by her feet and Isobel in her arms, shrieking in disgust or despair or any number of the pains Mary had felt over the past few years. 

“Do you think I could, Cathy?” she asked, shifting her hold on Isobel so she could balance her in one arm, to get the other hand to her laces. “Nurse her, I mean?”

“I don’t see why not,” Cathy said, rolling up the bed to take Isobel so that Mary could unlace herself properly. “She seems to hate her we tnurse, and I know that the previous Lady Suffolk nursed Edward and his sister both, so I know that Lord Suffolk will have no objection.”

Mary was still not sure how she was supposed to react to mentions of Aunt Margaret - Cathy seemed to forget that  _ the previous Lady Suffolk _ had been Mary’s aunt as well as Charles’ wife, as did so much of the staff, but Edward never did, and Mary never did, and she did not believe that Charles ever did, either. 

Her breasts were aching, when she opened her bodice and unlaced the front of her shift, and she was sure that this would not work.

But then, she had to wonder. Her mother had never nursed her, or the brothers who had died as infants. Those brothers had  _ died _ , and Mary had always been delicate, so much so that even at his most fiercely devoted, her father had worried for her health less from his own paranoid concern and more because there had been sincere reason to worry.

Would nursing her daughter make Isobel stronger? It could not hurt to try.

Isobel gave suck easier than Mary thought she would, but it  _ hurt! _ Oh, it hurt so much, and Mary bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying.

“Maria?” Cathy said, tucking Mary’s hair behind her ear with gentle, careful fingers. “Are you well?”

She did not dare to speak, because she knew that she would cry if she did, but she nodded - it was already hurting a little less, and the deep, throbbing ache in her breast was easing, too. 

“I wonder should you turn her?” Cathy asked. “Should she suck from either breast? Or should she only suck from one?”

Mary shrugged with her left shoulder, because Isobel was at her right breast, and Cathy nodded.

“I wonder will your breasts end up different sizes if she doesn’t feed from both?”

That shocked a laugh out of Mary, and left her gulping for breath to keep herself from crying. Cathy stroked her hair all the while, and cradled her hand under Isobel’s head when Mary tried to turn her - her hands were shaking just a little, and she needed Cathy’s help to hold the babe steady until Isobel’s weight was once more balanced against her chest.

“Does it hurt as much on this side?” Cathy asked, and Mary shook her head - it hurt, yes, but it wasn’t that same horrifying jolt of pain. “Well, at least, you shan’t need to worry about your breasts being uneven.”

_ “Cathy!” _

“Not that Lord Suffolk would turn away from you if they were,” Cathy went on, one hand still curled around Isobel’s head and the other running over Mary’s hair. “He is very fond of you, Maria, even if you don’t believe it.”

Mary knew that Charles was fond of her, knew that he was not displeased by Isobel, knew that he was a better man than she had believed, given his reputations for half a dozen sins and more. 

But she did now know what use that would be, should her father take news of her healthy babe against the Boleyn woman’s lost child as a bad omen. How could Charles protect her against the  _ King? _

How could any of them protect Isobel, so small and fragile, so perfectly lovely from her nest of dark curls to her straight little nose to her pink toes, if Mary’s father took against them?

 

* * *

After he had sent away the girl, and washed her too-strong perfume from her skin, Tony was shown in.

“A daughter,” he said, smiling. “As fine a girl as your Frances, I hope.”

Tony had stood godfather to Frances, and wrote to her more often than Charles did himself - Charles was not afraid to admit that Tony would likely prove a more attentive father than he was himself. Most men would, short of the King himself. 

“Just as fine,” Charles said, pouring wine for the two of them and passing a cup across to Tony. “You should come to see her - no chance of standing godfather this time, I’m afraid. Mary insisted on her brother, Richmond.”

“They’re in contact?” Tony asked, surprised. “Does the King know?”

“Undoubtedly,” Charles said, unable to keep from smiling. “Since it was Richmond who broke down the door of the privy council chamber to fetch me home to see Isobel born.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny about it all,” Tony said. “Do you honestly think that the Boleyns won’t see a threat in your wife allying with Richmond? Two king’s bastards are more dangerous than one, Charles, you must see that.”

Mary would object to being named a king’s bastard - Catherine had said something similar in jest, the day of Isobel’s christening, and Mary’s face had gotten very thin, as Margaret’s used when she was in a rage, and she had snapped that if she was to be a bastard, then she would be a  _ queen’s  _ bastard.

Loyal to her mother, even in insult. How typically, bloody-mindedly  _ Tudor. _

But perhaps there is some merit in what Tony is saying. Perhaps it would be best to discourage her friendship with young Richmond - difficult, though, since she is so fond of him, since Edward and Catherine both have taken to him so much. It had taken Charles by surprise, to see the easy way between Mary and her brother, who she called  _ Hal.  _ He had never seen her so easy with Edward, and only sometimes so with Cathy - never with himself, of course, because she was still afraid of him in some ways. 

“I cannot deny her her only friend,” he said, shaking his head. “Aside from Lady Willoughby, she is close to no one save him. I cannot take what comfort his companionship gives her away, not when she still lives in terror of what the witch will do to her if given free rein.”

“Watch them all the same, Charles,” Tony warns. “Don’t forget that the Tudor claim to the throne came from a bastard line - the King certainly won’t.”


	7. Chapter 7

"My lady says for you to wait for her in the library, my lord!" Cathy called, billowing down the stairs in a sweep of deep pink skirts and loose hair. "She was churched just yesterday, my lord, you'll be glad to see her I'm sure!"

Charles was hardly in the door, and stepped neatly aside to let Cathy out into the gardens - half a dozen hounds followed at her heels like pets, and he could hear Edward shouting outside. 

"Thank you, Catherine!" he shouted after her, laughing despite himself. It was rude, of course, but it pleased him that Cathy was no longer so fascinated by him that she felt that she had to stand attendance. 

He had considered her, as a wife - she was inordinately wealthy, as pretty as her lady mother had been in her prime, and a pleasant girl. Not for a year or two, not until she was seventeen or so, but she was nothing at all like Margaret and he might have found her easier to become used than he was Mary.

Edward and Cathy both were shouting outside now, and when he glanced out they were waving up at the library window, shouting something -  _no gifts!_ Charles thought, which was typical. Edward was always overjoyed to have him home, but only until he saw that Charles was empty-handed.

Perhaps that was unfair. He did not spend nearly so much time as Edward would like at home, and often much of his time at Westhorpe was spent with tenants and debtors and all the rest. Was he a neglectful father? Margaret had sometimes said so, when they fought, and he sometimes worried over it while praying, but he did not think so. He loved Edward and Frances - and little Isobel, so new and unknown, her too - more than anyone or anything else, more than he had loved Margaret and more, he thought, than he was capable of loving any woman. 

Was that enough, when he had not seen Frances in over a year? When even though Edward lived at home, Charles knew his son mostly in passing? Isobel was just over a month old, still a tiny pink thing in her cradle - would she remain such a mystery to him, even when she became a child, rather than an infant?

Childrearing was women's business, but his eldest children had no mother to rear them - only a stepmother who was their mother's niece and barely older than them besides, and an aunt who was likely mad and certainly scandalous. 

And a step-aunt, he supposed, and paused a moment to pray that the Queen never thought to concern herself with his children. 

He continued on past thrown-open windows, through which the warm August air poured like honey. The whole of Westhorpe seemed sweeter now than it had in years, since his and Margaret's great falling out, and he was glad of Mary's presence if only because it seemed to have lifted Edward's lonely spirits.

The library, then - Mary's favourite room, per both Edward and their tutors, the room with the biggest windows and the best views of the gardens, the brightest and warmest room in the whole house. Margaret had never liked it overmuch, had preferred to do her reading in his study, curled up in the chair by the fire with her feet tucked under her and her hair loose over her shoulders. It had made it easier for her to fight with him over whatever fancy took her that day. 

Mary was not Margaret, was hardly like her at all - he could not imagine his new little wife fighting with him over scripture, no more than he could imagine her becoming easy enough in his company to sit with a book while he saw to his accounts. 

She was sitting in the chair under the middle window, a book - like as not a prayer book - half-forgotten in her lap as she fidgeted at her bodice. She made a pretty picture, but a nervous one.

"My lady," he said, struck for once by her resemblance to her mother, to her grandmother, Queen Katherine's soft mouth and Queen Elizabeth's straight nose, and none of Henry or Margaret. It was a relief, and he felt a coward for it. "You seem well?" 

She smiled for him, just slightly, and kept toying with the neck of her gown. She did seem well, even if she looked more exhausted than he had ever seen in her - her pale eyes seemed paler for the shadows below them, her sharp cheekbones sharper for the hollows under them. Was she ill, and only giving the appearance of health?

Was she thinner than she had been, too? Not thinner simply for not being fresh from the birthing chamber, but thinner in the face, in the pale, smooth throat?

And had he simply not noticed because of the swell of her bosom over her gown, under her dancing fingertips?

It had only been four days since he'd had a woman - surely he was not so desperate that he was ignoring his wife's health? He was a better man than that, wasn't he? He liked to think so, and knew that Mary thought better of him than that. She had told Chapuys so just last Christmas, that he was a  _good man._ None other had ever said it of him, short of Henry, and Henry had a less-than-moral view of just what made a man good.

"Well enough," she said, gesturing for him to take the other seat. Her smile was warm, and uncertain, and terribly young. "Isobel is thriving - she has finally started sleeping for more than an hour at a time."

"Frances was the same," Charles said, wondering if Frances was still as poor a sleeper as she had been even until she left for Scotland. Would Lady Methvin send his daughter home to him, if he asked? Or was she as consumed by her madness as the Scots all said? "Is she feeding well?"

"She wasn't," Mary said, smile growing firm, "but she is now - I have taken to nursing her myself."

Her fidgeting fingers kept moving at the pearl-edged neckline of her deep blue gown, and it made sense - Margaret had complained of her breasts hurting when she'd nursed the children, and had needed some sort of salve for her nipples.

Would Mary mind him asking if she needed such a thing? Or would he be better asking Cathy? No, it would be on the cusp of sinfulness to ask Cathy such a thing. Best to ask one of Mary's ladies, the twittering girls who were sent by the Queen to spy and the quiet girls who had been gathered from such families as had little taste for the Queen and her people, sent by Thomas More and by Bishop Gardiner and by ever-surprising Tony Knivert, who had a fondness for Mary that superseded his loyalty to Henry in odd, small ways.

There were seven of them, including Cathy. Three sent by the Queen, three from parties loyal to Mary, and Cathy herself. Charles never saw a one of them save for Cathy, who spent half her time with Edward, because they confined themselves to Mary's finely appointed, west-facing suite of rooms, while Mary sequestered herself away in the chapel or the library, or in her private rooms with Cathy.

He did not even know their names, these girls who spied on his wife for friend and foe alike. There were two Howard girls, he knew, but could not have picked them out from the rabble. A More, he suspected, Thomas More's clever eldest daughter like as not, who had always been her father's greatest pride. He couldn't have said beyond that, but wondered - Tony had sent one of those girls. Tony, who had always denied any debts beyond those he owed to Henry...

And to the late, lovely Queen Elizabeth, who had chosen him out from a hundred better prospects to join her son's household. Mary had something of her grandmother's bearing - was Tony placing his debts in Mary's keeping now? 

"She is so beautiful, Charles," Mary said softly, drawing him away from his thoughts. Her book was closed now, balanced on the arm of her chair, and he could see now that it was no prayer book - it was poems, the sort Cathy liked to read when he was not at home to forbid it. "I never thought I could love anyone the way I love her. I did not think I had any love left in me at all, save what remains for my mother."

"I will go to her as soon as we are finished here," Charles promised, and found that he was looking forward to it - it had been so long since Frances had been so small, longer even since Edward was a babe, and he had always liked holding them when they were smaller than his two hands together. "It is so easy to love your children."

It could not be easy for Mary to love anyone at all, he supposed, after all she had suffered at the hands of her own father, and it pleased him to see the flush of pride in her cheeks when she spoke of their daughter.

Her fingers were moving faster now, and harder, but Charles still did not know how she might react  to him asking after her breasts. She liked him kissing them very much, and was very vocal about liking it, but only in their bed. 

She was only ever vocal in their bed, it sometimes seemed. 

"My brother is coming to visit us," she said, smiling wider now. "He has written to me to tell me that he has some special gift for Isobel - he is taking his role as her godfather very seriously. It is... Darling, in its way."

Bloody Richmond! He had a bastard's sense, to seek out company that would make a fuss of him, and to make a meal of them in the process, but he had not a lord's sense, to avoid risking the King's displeasure.

"It is going to get us all killed," Charles said, settling into his seat and rubbing one hand through his dirty hair, "because the King is sending Tony Knivert here to make an assessment of how likely you are to rebel, and having your  _fucking_ brother here will only make thingsworse for you, I fear."

"My fucking brother, my lord?" Mary said, voice sharp. He had never heard her swear before, not even in a moment of passion, and was surprised by how natural it sounded. "My  _fucking_ brother? How  _dare_ you? Who are you to insult  _my brother_ in this way?"

"Your husband," he said, just as sharp through gritted teeth, "who has three children and a ward to think of, and an ungrateful wife, and no claim to any throne. You and your brother have one child between you, and claims as solid as your grandfather's to the throne - you are  _dangerous_ , Maria.  _Dangerous._ You are not a foolish woman, Maria. You  _know_ this."

He hadn't meant to call her _Maria_ \- he had heard Cathy saying it when last he was home, and had been amused by it, by the easy affection between the two of them that so reminded him of himself and Henry as boys.

Looking at the name now, at this Spanish name for his halfways Spanish wife, it seemed to fit her better than he had realised. Still, she was angry with him, and likely would not appreciate the show of familiarity.

"I have no one else in the world but Isobel and Hal who are  _mine,"_ she said, quiet and  _furious._ He had never seen such a rage in her, and wondered what it was that young Richmond had done to inspire such loyalty in her in so short a time - he'd had her for a wife for the better part of a year, given her a child and a home when before she had had nothing at all. "You belong to my father, Edward and Cathy to you. Isobel and Hal are  _mine,_ though.  _Mine,_ Charles! I would  _never_ do anything to risk any harm coming to my  _baby!"_

"But others will use you," he said. "And Richmond, and you both together - don't you see, Mary? Don't you understand? You are an intelligent woman, Mary, you and I both know it, but you refuse to  _look._ "

"I know well how dangerous Hal and I are, Charles," she snarled, like the wolf-bitch they had all named the last French Queen, surging upright to stand over him. "I know better than anyone just how dangerous Hal is - until that Boleyn bitch threw down my mother, Hal was dangerous to me! While I was at Ludlow, all I ever heard was the danger Hal and the witch posed to me. But he is  _mine,_ Charles! I know him now, and I trust him - he would never risk Isobel, either."

"I do not know your brother," Charles said, holding hard to the arms of the chair so he couldn't hold hard to her. "I barely know  _you_ , my lady. You have been a part of this household for most of the last year, have been my wife for almost all of that time, and I still know you hardly at all."

She made to speak, but held her tongue when he held up a hand to her. She stepped back just a little when he stood to face her down, and he very nearly regretted that - her odd little shows of fear shamed him, for he seemed their sole cause of late.

"I trust that you will not rise up against your father only because I can guess just how deep your loyalty to him runs, because I know your  _mother._ I lived in her court for  _years_ , and I know her."

Margaret had always spoken of her sister-in-law in almost adoring terms, fascinated by the infanta who had held such sway even without a prince to secure her - until the bitch came to power, anyhow. He laughed without meaning to, because it was all so absurd. "I know my mother-in-law better than I do my fucking  _wife!"_

She slapped him - twice as hard as she had before, and twice as beautiful, too. She was entirely herself now, with that rage of hers blazing in her red cheeks, and her eyes dark, not pale at all, and, and-

And had she been Margaret, he would have taken her wrists, held them behind her back, and kissed her until she cursed him. Then he would have fucked her against the wall between the windows, and kissed her in the aftermath to take the sting out of the force of their coupling.

_But she is not Margaret,_ he reminded himself, instead taking her hands together in one of his, instead lifting one hand to curl around her flushed, ticking jaw. 

"If you slap me again," he said, very quietly, as gently as if he was asking if he could visit her bed, "I will lock you in your room and keep you away from Isobel, and from Cathy, and from your precious Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset. Am I understood?"

She nodded, eyes wide and explosive colour fading from her cheeks, and took her hands from his to press them to his chest.

"I have so little, Charles," she said, easing up onto her toes. She was small enough that to kiss her, he had to bend right down, but less so when she rose like this, so her nose was brushing to his. "Please let me keep what I have. Don't be like him."

_Him._ The great ghost that haunted them. Henry had taken everything from her, and she thought of him still as part of Henry's power. 

Was he no more than Henry's puppet? Or was he his own man, as he had been when he had wed Margaret, when he had sent Frances to Scotland against royal advice?

"Richmond will be welcome here," he heard himself saying, almost able to taste her. "But only for so long as it is safe for our children for him to be here."

She moaned when he pressed her back to the wall. She was lovely, and wholly herself, as she came apart around him.

 

* * *

 

Mary staggered into the nursery after leaving Charles, ashamed of herself.

How had she- After the way he had spoken about Hal! About her! It was- 

Was this how her father's women felt, after he had used them? Cheap and worthless?  _Ashamed?_

And to have pushed herself on him so, to get her own way! She was no better than the harlot, taking advantage of her husband's avarice and lust just so she would not lose her brother.

Oh, God. Oh,  _God._ How ashamed her mother would be, if she knew how Mary was behaving! 

But... Surely she did not have to be ashamed. Surely her mother did not have any true cause for shame. Charles was her husband, after all, the father of her beautiful girl, the only man whose bed she had ever shared. So what if it was sinful to share a bed for pleasure's sake? She would go to her confessor and make confession, and she would-

What would she do? What good Christian wife hit her husband and then let him take her against a wall in daylight like a common whore? What good Christian wife  _enticed_ her husband to use her like a strumpet under the light of the sun?

It had felt so good, though! It always felt so good when Charles came to her bed, with his strong hands and his plush mouth, and it had not felt any less good against the  _wall_ in the  _library,_ with Cathy and Edward playing with the dogs on the lawn below, with her ladies - her cursed, blasted, unwished for ladies - trapped away in her presence chamber, which they never wished to leave so far as Mary could tell. 

Isobel was sleeping in her rosewood cradle, with Charles' dark hair and Mary's long nose and a beauty entirely her own, a beauty that shocked Mary every time she looked and saw that her daughter was not crying. She was a delicate little thing, small for her age according to the nursemaid Cathy had found through the jolly midwife who had shown Mary how best to hold Isobel while nursing and given her a salve for her poor aching nipples. 

"I do not know what to do with a man like your lord father," she said, leaning over the rails of Isobel's cradle. "I was never told how to manage a man like him - your lady grandmother taught me that a husband would respect me, would confine himself only to visits at respectable times, and your lady godmother promised me that your father would be a respectable man."

"I am a respectable man, Maria," Charles said, and when she looked, he was leaning against the doorframe, arms and ankles crossed. "I did not mean any disrespect."

"I will not have this discussion before our daughter," she said. "Just as I should not have- What if Edward and Cathy had  _heard_ me, Charles?"

She was always so embarrassed by how loud she was when he was touching her, but what she had felt before was nothing compared with now. At least then, they had been abed. At least then, there had only been him to hear her - today there had been the children outside, and God himself, too!

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," he said, haltingly. "In what we share - even if that is all we share." 

"We share a daughter, too," she reminded him. "And a home, I think. Or the makings of one."

Something in his fine face twisted at that, and she cursed herself for such a turn of phrase - every such thing reminded him of Aunt Margaret, and every reminder of Aunt Margaret pained him.

What must it have been like for Margaret, to know that someone loved her so fiercely? Mary doubted that she would ever know such a love, and was not so sad as she might have been a year ago, because she had a better love - she had Isobel, and what other children she and Charles would have in time.

"I understand that you have been lonely for a very long time, my lady," he said, coming to stand beside her, one hand resting on the cradle railings and the other resting somewhere above her waist. "And I understand that you are denied what little family is left to you. But for your sake, and for hers - show caution with your brother. Your father is a fickle man, and I have already lost his favour once, and risked it very much twice only since you joined my household."

"Twice? How so?"

"Once by enquiring after your marital prospects," he said, his smile teasing, "and a second time by indulging you and giving our daughter a Spanish-sounding name."

"My father did not approve, then," she said, disappointed. He had always spoken with such deep love and respect for his lady mother that Mary had hoped he would appreciate the name Charles had picked for their girl. How typical that she had hoped in vain. 

"He did eventually," Charles assured him, "but not at first. He will wish her to come with us for Christmas, I think."

"I don't want her near that woman if I can help it," Mary said sharply, unable to help herself. "I don't want-"

"There are a great many things that I would spare you if I could," he said, hand settling finally on her hip, heavy through her skirts. "But her presence is not one of them - we must endure, until we are free."

"Free, Charles? Whatever does that mean?"

He sighed, tugging her closer by the hand on her hip, and kissed her brow - an unusual gesture of affection, but one she did not mind at all. If he were becoming fond of her for something other than her presence in his bed and her mercifully fertile womb, she would not mind it. 

"It means," he said, "that I ought to tell you all the news I have from court - and that is a conversation  _I_ will not have over our daughter's cradle. Come, my lady. Your ladies are doubtless starving for your company, since you deny it to them so often."

Her ladies could starve their ways back to London and Lambeth and wherever else they had come from, for all Mary cared. She would leave them in her fine, elegantly appointed rooms, and she would keep to the library, and to her room and Cathy's, and she would have some measure of peace. 

Particularly if she had the right of Charles' meaning - could it be that the harlot's fall was near? 

Perhaps, in this at least, her hopes were not in vain.


End file.
